


been carrying a pack of wolves

by Kaya4114, LightningRidgeBlackOpal



Series: Proverbs [2]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Abuse of perscription medication, Addiction, Anxiety, Depression, Dirty Talk, Drinking, Drug Use - Cocaine, Drug Use - Xanax, Drug use - Marijuana, Excessive references to music, Fingering, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Pegging, Punk Band Au, Recreational Drug Use, Rehab, Romance, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Trans Ryan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 21:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20712827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaya4114/pseuds/Kaya4114, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningRidgeBlackOpal/pseuds/LightningRidgeBlackOpal
Summary: For they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains about thy neck.- Proverbs 1:9From a Christ that went hissing / Constricting his cells / We summon by candle by book and by bell.- Tetragrammaton, The Mars Volta





	been carrying a pack of wolves

**Author's Note:**

> Well holy cow! First of all, endless thanks to Kaya4114. Without them, this sequel would be... nothing. It wouldn't be half as much, half as developed, half as realized. Thank you, for living in this world with me, for pushing me to do better, and for helping me write an entire album of lyrics for a band we made together. This might be one of my favourite fics, and it's because of you. 
> 
> General notes: This fic deals with dark subject matter. In a way, this helped me work through a lot of my personal problems as a recovering addict. There is a lot of talk of drug use, addiction, and the anxiety and depression that addiction feeds. Trigger warnings abound. There are suidical thoughts. There is an overdose. But good lord, there is so much beauty here too. Beauty and hope. And good fucking music.
> 
> Another note; Shane's dad in this fic is 100% an OC and is based in no manner on his real life dad. I could never assassinate the character of any member of these boy's families, and want to be clear on that.
> 
> Playlist(s?) of music mentioned: [been carrying a pack of wolves](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/119UwdCkrJbXQM25sYgyjN?si=e8dZmCxKQyWMs8IOxzyNTg)
> 
> (Does anyone want Shane's sad times playlist too? I could make one.)

_ When he was younger, he believed certain things to be true. All the things your parents tell you, all the stories about good guys and bad guys; good, bad -- people aren't either, he learned eventually, people are just people. But the weight of those ideas, the constant shroud of this or that and good or bad and desire and austerity, the weight of it all bears down on him like it bears down on all of the people who are just people until they forget how to be and why they are. _

_ He forgot a long time ago the song that his mother used to sing to lull him to sleep, but the idea of it, the echoing tuneless rhythmless melody he's left with still plays in his mind when he lies down. _

_ *** _ _  
_ _ December 2016 _

_ The snow on the ground drifts along, buffeted by the wind. It looks like a river of smoke, and while he trudges along the sidewalk, music blaring in his headphones, he tightens his jacket around himself. Winter, he thinks, is both the best and worst time of year. Every object rendered bare and barren and brittle; the naked bones of the trees standing stark against the sepia haze of the streetlamps bouncing off the untouched canvas; everything beautiful, everything soft and muffled quiet. But the bitter cold, biting at him and shivering his bones; the isolation, the cheer around him… Winter, for all it’s charm, brings out the worst in him. _

_ Every year it’s like he forgets and then every year he’s snuck up on by his sadness. The loneliness tugging his thoughts this way and that; discomfort across his shoulders a heavy burden. He continues along, and before long he’s home. _

_ “How was work?” Ned asks while he stands outside the open door, knocking the snow off his boots and kicking them off as he steps inside. He’ll deal with them later. He shuts the door behind himself and shivers in the heat of the apartment. “Hello, Shane?” Ned continues. He finally looks over, and just shrugs. _

_ “Work was work dude, it sucked,” he says, shrugging out of his jacket and slinging it over the back of a chair. He walks over and collapses next to Ned with a heavy sigh. “Am I the only one getting sick of the snow?” he asks. Ned hands him a loaded pipe and he pulls his white lighter out of his pocket, lights it up and takes a hit. _

_ “I dunno, I kinda like it,” Ned answers. Shane just sighs, handing the pipe back over. He stands up, says, "I'm gonna take a shower," and heads into the bathroom. The chill is still clinging to him and he shivers as he strips off his shirt. His reflection looks tired, dark bruised circles under his eyes, his lips angled downward and cheeks sunk in, the ridges of his ribs visible through his pale skin. It's not a good look on him, summer suits him better. _

_ He goes to bed right after. _

_ *** _

_ The view from here is beautiful; the water glimmering in the lights, the city rising up around him, beautiful. He's looking down, past his feet, past the flurry of falling snow, into the water. The bridge is a bit icy, the rail he's standing on is slick. He hates being here. _

_ Maybe it's not the snow, not the cold, not the winter. Maybe it's none of it. The night comes earlier and earlier and he resents it because the night has always been his time but these moods make it foreign. He glances to his left where it looks like some snow is hovering still; it's caught in a spider's web, shaking in the wind like he is; he can't see where the web is tethered. _

_ "Back off!" someone yells. His attention snaps toward the noise, so quick he almost loses his balance. He's been losing his balance for years. He steps down, back onto the sidewalk, and starts walking. "Leave me alone!" the voice yells, "help!" He runs, and comes upon them quickly. _

_ Two guys, big guys, pushing a girl to the ground. It takes less than that to send him running toward them, but it certainly fuels the fire suddenly warming him and the rattle in his chest. "Hey!" he says, moving toward them. One of the guys goes to speak but he doesn't wait for it, sprinting forward and slamming his fist into the guy's face. He crumples and his friend takes off. Shane kicks out a few times but the guy grabs his foot and tugs, and he crashes to the ground; the guy is on him in an instant, knuckle ridged fists crashing into his face again and again and again. He turns, searching for the girl, and sees her running away. _

_ Maybe it's not the winter; maybe it's this fucking city. _

_ *** _

_ Flashing lights; colours behind his eyes; a huge warm white spotlight. It's like he's on stage. _

_ *** _

_ It's been a few days since he's felt joy. Starched, white hospital sheets and a heaviness in his chest. Ned is passed out in one of the chairs, his neck titled in a way he's going to regret in the morning. Shane rolls over, restless. A nurse pokes her head in to check on him and he feigns sleep. _

_ He's better at faking than he thought, because he wakes up to morning light streaming in through the window. He sits up, and notices that Ned is gone and in his place is his father, reading the paper with a deep crease in his brow. He folds it up and meets Shane's eye. _

_ "How are you feeling?" he asks, and Shane shrugs. His throat feels like sandpaper; one cheek is still swollen and one eye is shut and purple and angry. _

_ "Okay I guess." _

_ His dad sighs. He seems exhausted. He seems like he's tired of all of this. "So you got jumped?" his dad asks; it sounds more like an accusation. "Some kids you forgot to pay? Dealer you pissed off?" he says, "a junkie you were galavanting around with?" Shane rolls his eyes. _

_ "Don't you dare. Cocaine in your system. Cocaine, Xanax, weed, liquor. You trying to kill yourself?!" _

_ Shane shrugs again. "Well, very funny," his dad continues, "because a guy came forward and said you punched him first. There's not a lot keeping him from pressing charges, so congratulations Shane. You're going to jail. Proud of you, son." He leaves the room, says something about coffee. Shane lays back down and tries to fall asleep before he comes back up. He fails, but his dad doesn't come back anyway. _

_ *** _

_ It’s looking like jail is in his future when he gets a call out of nowhere. He answers, and when the man identifies himself as a lawyer representing a girl who claims that he saved her, he starts laughing. It might be the first time he’s laughed in a week. _

_ “Mr. Madej, I represented this young woman in an unrelated matter but she was quite insistent that I help you out.” _

_ Shane just stares at the grey bricks of the wall in front of him. “Deus ex machina,” he says, mostly to himself. _

_ “What was that?” the guy asks, and Shane lies, “what was your name again?” _

_ “Steve,” he answers, “Steven Bergara. And I can’t get you out of trouble, but I can keep you out of jail. I guarantee it. As long as you’ll go to rehab there shouldn’t be any problem.” Shane says yes, Shane agrees to whatever he says. _

_ Before he hangs up, he says, “Mr. Bergara… can you get me out of Illinois?” _

_ He laughs on the other end of the line, and says, “how does California sound?” _

_ *** _

_ It’s warm in Cali. Warm and solid, hazy and beautiful. It takes him ages to get accustomed to the heat at night, but he adapts. He’s resilient. Sobriety is a big, huge, terrifying thing; Mount Everest in front of him. He has doubts it will stick, but it’s worth a shot. _

_ When he got into town, Mr. Bergara met him at the center. He ran Shane through a litany of things that he didn’t listen to. He told him the length of his stay but he didn’t register it at all. He kept hearing the last thing his dad had said to him echoing in his ears, screaming over anything else being said. As if the words were motivation, “make me proud, son.” _

* * *

**been carrying a pack of wolves**

For they shall be an ornament of grace unto thy head, and chains about thy neck.

\- Proverbs 1:9

From a Christ that went hissing / Constricting his cells / We summon by candle by book and by bell.

\- Tetragrammaton, The Mars Volta

* * *

_ October 2018 _

The door sweeps open in front of him, and Shane can't fight the grin stretching at his cheeks. The house they’d moved into had sat empty for a while, the landlord described it as a ‘fixer-upper’ and she wasn’t wrong. Even once they’d moved in; Ned and him, Keith and Zach, it had seemed so empty. The house stood empty and alone at the end of a long dead-end street, cavernous with its whitewashed floors and tobacco stained walls, for a year before they walked in the door; it has stood for a year since then, and will for years to come.

The noise of this, though, all of his friends laughing and Ryan’s voice echoing off the tile in the bathroom and Andrew drumming along on the table; Steven screeching out lyrics and making Ryan cut off in an abrupt laugh, like it was startled out of him. It’s all so warm it hits him like a stone; like he’s been falling and falling for years and finally found a place to land. It’s love.

“You all sound terrible,” he says, but the smirk on his face and laugh in his voice betray him. Ryan’s head pokes out of the bathroom, where he’s shaving down the sides of his head and the music is playing loud through the stereo. Ryan’s face lights up, and Shane is struck by how beautiful he is.

“You sound terrible,” Andrew says. Regardless, Shane grabs his guitar and starts strumming along, falling into the ease of it quickly. The song changes and he continues right along.

“_ Sat outside my front window, this story’s going somewhere, ‘He’s well-hung’ and I am hanging up…” _ Ryan sings. His voice is strong and pure, echoing prettily off the tiles and and above the music from the stereo.

“We here to dick around or are we actually going to be a band and practice?” Shane asks, as Ryan comes out of the bathroom and struts down the hallway.

Once he’s singing it’s like he’s on stage. Whether it’s in Shane’s car or in Shane’s bed or on the street or in the kitchen after he’s just shaved the sides of his head; the world is his stage and Shane never wants to leave the audience.

"_ What you do on your own time's just fine, My imagination's much worse, I just never want to know… _" Ryan leans down, pressing a kiss to his temple. Shane chuckles, fumbles a few chords and gets back on track. He sings harmony, mostly on the chorus, and lets Ryan take the lead.

"_ Between your smiles and regrets, Don't say it's over, Dead and gone… Dead and gone. _"

They spend a couple of hours playing around, jamming to songs, and then Ryan's face turns serious.

"Listen, covers of Fall Out Boy and Brand New are fun and all but aren't we going to need our own material?" he says. Shane shrugs; he has a surprise.

The afternoon is short; fall is burning its last feeble embers and winter will be here soon. Eventually people start trickling out and Shane finds himself alone with Ryan, leading him down the hall and into his bedroom. Ryan crosses the room and collapses back onto the bed, spreading his arms out and sighing. Shane can't take his eyes off of the skin of his stomach, the jut of his hips, the dark hair. Beautiful, beautiful.

"You're beautiful," he mumbles and Ryan laughs, his face scrunching up, a flush on his cheeks. He digs around in his backpack and then walks over, dropping the big leather bound notebook on Ryan's stomach. It makes him say 'oof', softly, and sit up. He looks down at it with wide eyes, and then glances up at Shane. "We'd better get writing, right?" he asks. He thinks that it's finally becoming real, that everything is finally settling into place. Ryan grabs his arm and pulls him down and kisses him.

He thinks that he could do this forever. In this moment he realizes what forever means, what that looks like, and he accepts the grotesque weight of it the same way he accepts the pressure on his back and leans down to more fully press himself against Ryan; the same way he accepts the feeling in his chest as love.

“What are we gonna call the band?” Ryan asks. Shane just shrugs and tugs him in to kiss him again; his soft, full lips and his shining eyes and the entire world reduced to ashes outside the walls of his room. “Shane, seriously…” he continues as Shane moves his lips down to press against his neck.

He has no answer so he doesn’t offer one. They don’t need a name yet, like this thing with him and Ryan doesn’t need a name. “Mount Everest,” Shane says, and Ryan’s face twists in confusion when Shane looks up at him through his lashes. “It was still there before someone gave it a name,” he continues. Ryan laughs.

***

The bar isn’t very busy during the week, so Shane spends a lot of his time sitting by the front door and trying to write lyrics in the notes on his phone. They’re trash, he thinks they’re trash anyway, but he keeps typing away until someone clears their throat from right in front of him. He looks up, sheepish when he sees Mika there. “Sorry boss,” he says but they just wave him off.

“I’m not like, a monster. But I can’t help but feel like if you’re smiling you should probably be working harder,” they say, humor in their voice. Shane laughs, but hops down off his seat anyway. “I’ll take over your perch if you wanna head in and sweep up.”

With the broom in his hands, Shane sings along idly to the loud music playing in the nearly empty space. “_ You gotta go you gotta go, It's alright, But I wanna see you in the - see you in the light of the morning. _” He continues on, swapping out the broom for the mop and focussing on the far end of the bar. The few people, the regulars, cemented to their regular seats along the bar, clap lazily when the song ends. A flush rises on his cheeks, but he can’t help but soak it in. The hazy lights, the sticky floors, it’s something comfortable. He missed bars the most while he was in rehab; but he missed the drinking less than the atmosphere.

He continues cleaning up but finds his eyes drawn to the clock over and over again. He counts down the seconds until he can clock out. As soon as it comes he's out the door with a wave to Mika. He heads straight for Ryan's but pauses in the parking lot. He wishes he'd written more, wanted to show up with a song. Regardless, he heads up the stairs and into the door. It's late, but Eugene is still up, sitting on the couch and eating cereal while staring blankly at the television. "Hey," Shane says, quiet. Eugene looks over and smiles.

"What's up?" he asks and Shane shrugs. He makes his way back to Ryan’s room and gently pushes the door open. He’s still up too, a book hiding his face until he lowers it to offer him a grin that he returns.

“Off already?” he asks, stifling a yawn against his arm. Shane sits on his bed and nervously toys with his phone. “What’cha got there, handsome?” Ryan says. Shane sighs and unlocks his phone, scrolling through his notes until he finds the lyrics he’d been working on. He hands it over without a word and lets Ryan read through them.

_I’d say it a million times a day,_  
_ And gladly listen to the echo of my own voice._  
_ Don’t say anything lover,_  
_ Don’t say anything._  
_ The words in my chest,_  
_ The rhythm of the lines,_  
_ Nothing left to tell you but_  
_ ‘I’ve made a hundred choices.’_  
_ Don’t say anything lover,  
Say you love me too._

He reads them a few times, his lips whispering the words and putting a melody to them. “Not bad,” he says and a laugh tumbles out of Shane’s lips.

“If you say so…” he says and Ryan’s smile tucks down into a small, private frown. He sets the phone down and reaches over, pulls Shane closer.

“You don’t like them?” Ryan questions. Shane doesn’t answer because he doesn’t have an answer. Instead he lays his head in Ryan’s lap and lets him play with the hair at the nape of his neck. “_ Don’t say anything lover, _ ” Ryan sings, quiet, “ _ Don’t say anything… _”

_ I love you _, Shane thinks. He hopes that the way his hand reaches out and Ryan finds it without looking, the way their fingers tangle together, means that Ryan loves him too.

_Your name on my lips,_  
_ Tastes sweeter than sin,_  
_ I’ll endure this mess  
We’re in._

Dawn arrives slow and golden; the light travels slowly across the room from the window and Shane watches it. He didn’t sleep well, but the heat of Ryan in the bed and his even breaths kept him calm. Every time he closed his eyes he saw a long drop and water shimmering under the stars; vertigo sick in his stomach. By the time Ryan wakes up, he’s sitting on the bed and writing; he transcribed his partial song last night and spent the hazy hours of early morning continuing it. He thinks he has something but his doubt has him tempted to tear the page out.

Ryan stretches, the sheets at his waist and his skin on display. Shane wants to kiss him, so he does. “Morning,” Ryan mumbles, his hand finding Shane’s shoulder, the back of his neck, and holding him close. Shane’s lips travel, explore the continent of Ryan’s skin and drift down, down, down. He tugs the sheet off and presses a kiss to Ryan’s hip, splays his hand across his stomach. “Apparently a good morning,” Ryan jokes, but then he sucks in a ragged gasp as Shane teases at his dick with his tongue.

“Were you writing?” Ryan asks, and Shane just gives him a look, his mouth continuing to play at him and his tongue slipping in; through his lashes Ryan is blurry but the flush on his cheeks is clear as the morning sky. “Fine,” Ryan sighs, “we’ll talk later.”

Shane leans in again, spreading Ryan open and lapping at him as he tightens. He’s wet, and Shane loves that he can do this to him, that he’s allowed to, that Ryan wants him. His fingers toy with the thick curls, run down his thighs to spread his legs more. “Christ, Shane,” he says. He moans, and Shane takes the encouragement and runs with it. He becomes messier, pressing insistently forward and trying to ignore where he’s achingly hard against the mattress; he ruts forward and the friction is almost enough. His tongue dances, probing back and forth and flickering up and down, tasting every inch of flesh he can reach. Ryan’s left leg twitches and raises, bent toward himself and resting on Shane’s shoulder. Someone knocks on his door, and Ryan shouts, “fuck off for a minute.” Shane can hear giggles through the wall but he tunes them out and focuses instead on the music spilling from his boyfriend’s lips. A sigh, a moan, a whimper. Ryan cries out as he cums and Shane delves deeper, kissing and sucking at his dick and dragging him closer and closer to the edge again. “Stop, stop, let me do you,” Ryan says, panting.

Shane pulls off. He can feel where his face is wet, where it’s in his stubble. He thinks that he needs to shave, but Ryan doesn’t seem to mind. “You sure?” he asks and Ryan laughs, dragging him up to kiss him roughly and tumble them over so he’s straddling Shane’s thighs. He lets his hands rest on Shane’s chest. His heart is pounding, he hopes Ryan can feel it; he hopes Ryan can see and hear and feel the effect he has.

Ryan kisses at his neck, bites at his shoulder. His tongue plays at a nipple and Shane’s back arches. His hands fist uselessly in the sheets while Ryan’s drift along the waistband of his underwear and tug them off. He’s hard enough that his dick slaps up against his stomach and startles a gasp from him; the cool air against the precum slick head of it.

Someone knocks at the door again and Ryan makes a noise in his throat somewhere halfway between a groan and a shriek. In the morning his voice is rough, gravel and smoke-stained. He sounds beautiful. “Fuck off!” he says, tersely. Then he leans down and swallows Shane in one motion and surprises a shout from him. Whoever it is must get the hint. “Ryan,” he says, but no more than that -- his voice leaves him like the dew rising evanescent in the morning. Like the smoke curling off of his cigarettes last night.

The barbell through Ryan’s tongue teases along under the head of his dick and he swears. He pulls off to smile and Shane wants to kiss the smile right off his face; he settles for dropping his head back and shutting his eyes.

He doesn't last long.

***

He steps out of the shower and gets dressed in Ryan's room. The living room is full; the apartment active. It's been like this less often, lately; Sara and Jen moved out at the end of the summer. But as they've started taking the band more seriously they've been spending more time at Shane's. It's a shame. In the summer the apartment was always full and too loud and boisterous, with only five it suddenly seems empty. He sits down on the couch and seconds later Eugene is stumbling down the hall and collapsing lengthwise, his head on Shane's lap and his feet soon tucked under TJ's knees as he sits at the other end.

"Morning sleepy head," Shane says, running his fingers through the long flop of his hair. This month it's the deep copper of new pennies. Eugene grumbles, content or annoyed, and Shane turns his attention to the slightly-grown out buzz. Eugene cuddles in closer. TJ jumps and slaps Eugene's leg near his ankle.

“Knock it off you two,” Steven says from the kitchen. Shane leans his head back, and sees the kitchen upside-down; Andrew leans close into Steven’s space and they kiss while the coffee brews.

"What did I do?" Eugene demands, not moving from his spot. His voice is faux innocent; childish almost. TJ glares at him, but the moment seems to pass and Shane continues rubbing Eugene's head. "How're you feeling, Shaney?" he asks. Shane rolls his eyes, tucks his hands back behind his head. Eugene rolls over onto his back to look up at him. "I heard you did some writing," he says, "little birdy told me."

Shane doesn't answer, focuses instead on the cartoon on TV. He feels a poke in his side a few times, but schools himself solid. He won't react. "See," Eugene continues, "said little bird-"

"_ Sat on my window, and they told me I don't need to worry… _" Ryan interrupts, hastily making his way down the hall and drying his hair with a towel.

"-told me-" Eugene tries again.

"_ Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet, Little girls double dutch on the concrete… _" Ryan collapses down to sit in the middle of the couch right on top of him and Eugene flails his arms out and tries to grab Shane's arm. "Hey," Ryan says, ignoring Eugene's sputtering.

"Hi," Shane answers, smiling when Ryan leans in to kiss him. He moves, eventually, and Eugene stands up in a hurry. 

"Well fuck all you queers, I'm tired of being bullied," he says, huffing. Everyone laughs and he crosses his arms to sulk in the overstuffed chair.

"Anyway," Ryan says, leaving space for Shane to speak up.

“Okay yeah, I wrote some lyrics. But I don’t think they’re done y’know? I want to get a chance to sit down with everyone and do some writing. See what we can all come up with. I’ve never…” he pauses. He was going to say that he’s _ never _ written before, but that isn’t entirely true. “I’m no lyricist,” he settles on. Ryan rolls his eyes.

“Everyone who wants to see Shane’s lyrics raise your hand,” he says, and everyone does except Shane. He glances over to Eugene, sends him a glare. Eugene just bats his eyes and pouts, slowly lowering his hand.

“Traitors, the lot of ya,” he says, and then pulls his phone out dutifully and hands it over to Ryan. “Well go on, Bergara. You’re the lead singer,” he says, when Ryan hesitates.

“Fine,” Ryan says, clearing his throat and starting. He’s reading at first, but he finds melody in the lines and makes it fit with the tune he started developing last night. Everyone is quiet, and when he finishes the air suddenly feels humid and hot. Maybe it’s Shane and not the air, maybe his face is flushed and his glasses are fogging up a bit. Maybe he should have worn contacts, or left early and showered at home.

“Dude, that’s fucking awesome. What’s the title?” TJ says. Shane and Ryan look at each other.

“Sigh Fury,” Shane says, and the room erupts.

“I like it,” Andrew says, coming out of the kitchen, coffee in hand and Steven at his heels. The two make their way over to stand near the rest of the group.

He doesn't understand it. The praise makes him a bit uncomfortable; he feels a phantom itch but buries it. "Have you done any writing?" he asks Ryan.

He looks caught out; scarlet hands; but then the alarm on his phone goes off and he leans in to kiss him and stands to rush back to his room to get dressed. The room boos him, but the attention is off of Shane so he can feel himself calming down. He stands up and heads down the hall but Ryan comes bursting out of his room before he can even make it to the door. “Woah,” Shane says, “slow down, dude. You need a ride?”

Ryan pauses, and then visibly relaxes. “Yeah, sure. You ready?” he says, sighing and raising a hand to rub at the back of his neck. 

“When you are,” Shane says, gesturing toward the door and following Ryan out.

The morning isn’t cold, but Ryan shivers against the fresh air anyway. Maybe still heated from his rush to get ready. Shane slips out of his flannel and drapes it over Ryan’s shoulders as he pauses to open the door, rounding the car and slipping into the driver’s side.

“Thanks,” Ryan says, quietly. Inside the silent car it sounds huge. Shane just shrugs it off, doing up his seatbelt, rolling down his window a little, and turning the key. The drive is much shorter than the walk so by the time he pulls up outside The Jazz, Ryan has gone from late to early.

He leans back in his seat, letting out a long breath, and then reaches over the center console to grab Shane’s hand where it’s fallen to lay in his lap. Ryan’s thumb traces over his knuckles, but he’s otherwise motionless; the profile of his face cast in sharp chiaroscuro from the rising sun. “I love you,” Shane says suddenly, and Ryan’s thumb freezes in place over the knuckle, next to the pinky. He inhales sharply. Before Shane can overthink or panic he lets out a long breath and turns his head to face Shane. His face is split into a grin, and his cheeks are flushed, and Shane thinks that he wants to see him like this every morning, every day, every night, for the rest of his life.

Four months -- only October now -- but he feels like he’s known Ryan a lot longer than that. He pulls Ryan’s hand up to his face and kisses it; he watches the blush deepen and does his best to commit each shade to memory. He wants a whole world like this, he wants this moment to continue on in slow motion. Ryan leans forward and kisses him, and the center console is pressing against his stomach weirdly and with his free hand Ryan has to hold the hem of his binder down, but it’s perfect.

He feels like he could do anything as long as Ryan’s eyes crinkle up at the corners when he looks at him.

***

He heads back home, and when he walks through the door Zach pokes his head out from the kitchen. “Hey dude,” he says, “long time no see.” There’s a wink in his voice, but Shane feels a bit guilty anyway. His joke has truth to it. Zach walks through and collapses on the couch, huffing a laugh. “What’ve you been up to?” he asks as Shane sits next to him. He shrugs.

“Hanging out with Ryan,” he says, “writing a bit.” Zach perks up, his small frame bouncing up to sit on the arm of the couch so he can face Shane properly.

“Writing?” he asks, excited, “writing what? Love poems to your boyfriend?”

He can feel a heat soaking his cheeks. “Kind of. I’ve been uh… working on lyrics.” Zach grins. He raises his boney hands and wiggles his fingers, so Shane sighs and unlocks his phone where it’s already sitting on the screen with the song he wrote. His friend reads over them quickly, and then again, slower.

“This is fucking good, Shane,” he says, “y’all have a social media presence yet?”

Shane laughs, shakes his head. “My dude, we don’t even have instruments.”

Zach just shrugs his shoulders roughly. “So what? You gotta get your name out there,” he says. Shane laughs again, realizing suddenly that they haven’t even talked about a name for the band. He leans back, arms up, resting the back of his head on his palms. Zach slides off the arm of the couch and leans in to tuck up under one of Shane’s arms. They laugh, and they watch some bizarre cartoon for the rest of the morning.

_ ‘Mount Everest _ ,’ Shane thinks, repeating like a ringing bell. ‘ _ It was there before someone gave it a name _.’

He wakes up suddenly, shifting a bit, and feels Zach still leaned against him. He’s snoring, and Shane does his best to slide out from under him. Luckily, he can sleep through anything, and Shane lowers his head to rest against the cushion as he heads to the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror; his dark eyes and sharp nose. His cheeks aren’t as hollow as they used to be, his skin less pale and sallow. Illinois is finally, almost two years later, rinsing off of him.

***

_ December 2016 _

_ “So you’re taking off?” Ned asks, his voice wrought with worry. Shane shrugs. _

_ “I’d rather try to get clean than go to jail,” he answers. Ned’s eyes are downcast, the corners low and his gaze on the floor. Shane reaches out and tips his head up to meet his eyes. “Besides, I’m fucking sick of Illinois.” _

_ Ned twists his head away, stares out the window instead. “Is it really that bad, Shane?” he asks. Shane isn’t sure if he means the city or the drugs, but either way his answer is the same. Ned sighs. “What am I gonna do without you, dumbass.” _

_ They laugh. It’s short and terse, not like their usual gasping humor. The shadows under Shane’s eyes seem to have been sucking all the humor out of the room lately. “Finish up your degree. And when I’m out and clean… who knows. Maybe I’ll miss the city after all.” He follows Ned’s gaze out the window, over the snow-capped city and the jagged skyline. He doubts it, but there’s always a chance. _

***

_ October 2018 _

His reflection doesn't tell him much, so he leaves the bathroom. He makes some tea, ready to settle in for a long afternoon spent with his thoughts. Just as he walks back into the living room Zach stirs, sighing groggily and sitting up to stretch. It’s still early in the afternoon, the sun streaming in through the windows. Shane sits down in the space that Zach has abandoned and sighs, scrolling through his phone without focussing on anything. He takes a long sip of tea and drags the big notebook out of his bag, shifting to hold it up. He taps a pen absently against the page and then starts writing.

_Your eyes on me,_  
_ They feel like fire._  
_ Like a moth to a flame,  
Like a burning desire._

_You're a mark on my soul_  
_ I can't escape you (you mark me)_  
_ The path I chose, It's like I'm out of control  
The red tape (you mark me)_

He realizes that Zach is leaning over his shoulder, reading while he writes. If they weren’t so close it would make him nervous but as it is he finds it comforting. He knows that he’ll have to write at least one song that isn’t about Ryan. but it seems impossible when he takes up all of his thoughts; when he can spend hours just imagining the curve of his lips and the flush on his cheeks when he laughs.

_You're like an imprint_  
_ A reflection of you on me  
I can't seem to escape it_

_ You’re like an imprint _  
_ Looking back all I see  
I don’t want to escape it_

“You’re fucking good at this,” Zach says, reaching up to rub his hand along Shane’s head. His buzz is growing out; he’s been toying with the idea of letting it. Shane just shrugs and Zach laughs, “seriously dude. Stop selling yourself short.”

Shane can’t, though. That’s the thing, and it’s always been the problem. He’s never seen himself as special or particularly _ great _ at anything, he’s never been able to take a compliment and believe it. It all just feels like weight bearing down on him, like gravity. “I’m glad you met Ryan,” he says, “you seem happier now than I’ve ever seen.” Shane sighs, setting the notebook off to the side, and Zach rounds the couch to fall into his lap, startling a laugh from him.

“I am,” he says. He means it. Even after getting out of rehab, it’s taken him a long time to find comfort and feel things again. He got so used to carrying anger around, to wearing his fear, that he had forgotten how it feels to be calm and jovial. Zach and Keith… Ned… Without them he would still be exactly where he was. “I am happy. And that you guys have all been so awesome about everything… it means a lot.”

It’s Zach’s turn to shrug, awkwardly where his arm is pressed against Shane’s chest. “What are we supposed to do? Get jealous? Tell you not to date him? I’m not your daddy, babe.” Shane laughs, and Zach laughs, and when Keith and Ned walk through the door and see them cuddled up on the couch they laugh too. And it’s all laughter, it’s all sunshine in the afternoon, it’s all summer days again.

***

He must have fallen asleep on the couch because he wakes up in the living room with a stiff neck and a sore back. Someone knocks on the door, maybe that’s what woke him up. He crosses the room and opens it, surprised to see Eugene. “What--” he says but Eugene bustles past him, says, “oh, thank God. Shane…” his eyes are wide; terrified. There’s something hollow in his expression that has Shane concerned immediately. “I was heading home from a show and some dudes started following me… and I thought maybe -- I thought --” he’s gasping, breathing quick and shallow, and he leans against the wall in the hallway and slides to sit roughly on the ground.

“Was it those assholes from this summer?” Shane asks and Eugene seems to remember where he is, looks up into Shane’s eyes.

Shane sits down, next to Eugene, and says nothing else. He leans, slightly, just enough to press their shoulders together. Fingers wrap themselves around his, and he just tries to breathe slowly and evenly and hope that he calms down enough to match it.

“Sorry,” Eugene says eventually. Shane shrugs, reaches his arm up to drape over his shoulders and pull him close.

“There’s nothing to apologize for, kid. I’m here for you," he says; he means it. He hasn't known Ryan's friends for long, but Eugene in particular has weaseled his way into his heart. Something about how wild and unrestrained he is, there's something magnetic about him.

"Can I crash here tonight?" he asks. Shane nods, grabs his hand to hoist him up and then busies himself in the kitchen. "Sorry about this morning. I didn't mean to like, bring it up when you weren't ready but Ryan was really excited about it and said it was really good and --"

"-- Eugene," Shane says. His mouth snaps shut, like he just realized he was rambling. Shane laughs, and hands him a mug of tea. "Come on, kid," he says. They walk down the hall to his room together.

Shane pauses inside his door and stretches, working one of his shoulders in wide circles. Eugene sits on the bed awkwardly; Shane doesn't think he's been in his room before. "Lay down," Eugene says, gesturing toward his sore shoulder. Shane strips off his shirt and does as he's told, laying on his stomach and waiting. Eugene swings a leg over and straddles him, resting just above his ass. "You seem really tense," he says, and Shane laughs.

"You can say that again," he says, sucking in a ragged breath when Eugene's hands, still warm from the mug of tea steaming on his bedside table, slide up along his back and his thumbs press in loose circles up the length of it.

"Wanna talk about it?" Eugene asks, his hands running back and forth and starting to work out some of the knots. Shane makes a noncommittal noise, a vocal 'maybe'. One palm, and then the other, run straight up along his spine and he moans at the loosening tension. "It's too bad Ryan met you first…" he says, startling a laugh from Shane. "What? You're a catch."

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. Eugene scoffs. “Maybe I do wanna talk about it,” he says, sighing as the strong hands make their way up to his shoulders, wincing as it presses in on the knot. Eugene whistles lowly, circling the angry muscle a few times before focussing on the skin around it. “This whole band thing, I’m really excited and it’s something I’ve actually wanted to do for a while but now…” he pauses, tries to collect his thoughts; light circles, a firm touch, the knot still too tense to work on. “Now that it’s here and I’m writing lyrics or whatever I’m just questioning if I’m actually good enough. Ryan could make it if he tried, with or without us, but I’m just constantly second guessing what I have to offer.”

Eugene doesn’t speak for a while, just continues working the muscles; he’s finally moved in to focus on the knot in his shoulder and is working it over and over; Shane can feel it grinding and loosening the whole time. He’s falling asleep when Eugene leans in close and whispers, “you’re handsome, but you’re an idiot.” He twists his head a bit more and opens his eyes, looks up at Eugene. “Listen up, Shaney. I hadn’t heard Ryan sing in years until you told him he sounded good. He was stressed, depressed, and in need of a rest last summer. And you, somehow, got through to him in like, what, two days? You’re great at guitar, you pick up songs fast as fuck, and you’ve got a good voice yourself. And if what I heard this morning is any indication you’re not bad at lyrics either. You bring a lot to the table.”

Shane hums; the knot finally releases and he’s relaxed enough that he’s almost asleep again before the end of Eugene’s speech. “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘great’ at guitar,” Shane says, laughing when Eugene flicks the back of his ear. He rolls over, an awkward maneuver with Eugene still straddling him, and looks up at him from on his back. “Thanks Gene,” he says. Eugene frowns.

“Don’t call me Gene, babe,” he says, but his hand rests gently against Shane’s cheek and he smiles again. “And thanks for letting me crash. You taking the couch?”

Shane laughs, deep and near-manic. “Just go to bed, **Eu**gene,” he says, closing his eyes and settling back against his pillow. Eugene swings off of his lap and turns off the light. He crawls back in, and the two fall asleep just before dawn.

When he wakes up he hears laughter. He moves to roll over and bumps into someone, opens his eyes and sees Eugene blinking awake. They’re tangled together, Eugene flush against his back (and hard against his ass) and his arms wrapped around his middle. Eugene winks and smiles, the image of innocent, and Shane laughs. He climbs out of the bed and stretches in the afternoon, scratches his belly and rolls his neck out. “My shoulder feels better, thanks,” he says, digging through his clean laundry for a towel.

“No problem,” Eugene shrugs, sitting up and letting the blanket slide off of him. 

He isn’t nude, but for all his underwear covers he may as well be. Shane rolls his eyes and while Eugene steps back into his pants he leaves the room to head into the shower.

“_ And we will never be alone again, 'Cause it doesn't happen everyday, Kinda counted on you being a friend, Kinda given up on giving away, Now I thought about what I wanna say. But I never really know where to go, So I chained myself to a friend… _” the steam, the hot water on his back and shoulders, his voice opens up and he sings along to the music blaring from his phone. He feels alive this morning; burning hot like a wire. The steam, the water, his soapy hands. One slips down and wraps absently around his morning wood and he sighs. He leans back a bit against the wall and lets his loose fist slide back and forth along himself, working towards a quick orgasm while the conditioner soaks in his hair. The bathroom door opens and someone walks in, giggling at the wet sound of skin on skin.

“Having fun in there?” Ned asks, running the sink for a second and brushing his teeth.

Shane groans, huffs a short laugh. “You know it babe, wanna join me?” Ned laughs, spitting out the toothpaste and coughing roughly. “Oh never mind, spitters are quitters,” Shane says and Ned laughs again. The song on his phone changes and the tempo is faster and his hand resumes the back and forth. He sighs, he moans, and just after Ned walks out and closes the door behind himself he lets himself shake apart.

By the time he’s dressed he heads out into the living room and is filled with a sudden dread. Eugene is sitting at the table with Zach. Eugene looks like he’s Dorothy Zbornak and Zach is a cheesecake, and Shane is suddenly struck with a vision of the two of them together; an absolute, innuendo filled nightmare.

It seems too late, though, as Zach cracks up at something Eugene says and Eugene leans forward on his elbows, grinning. “Hey dude,” Ned says from the kitchen. It’s a distraction that Shane takes happily, turning his back on the two and heading in.

“You see those two out there?” Ned asks, pitching his voice low. “It’s been like this since they met. They’re inseparable.” Shane nods, stealing a glance back out toward the table and then ducking back into the kitchen. He distracts himself pouring a cup of coffee, tries to figure out what to say.

“This is going to be a trainwreck,” Keith says from behind him, and the three of them laugh.

***

_ December 2016 _

_ “So, what brings you here,” the woman says, glancing down at her clipboard, “Shane.” _

_ He shrugs, he doesn’t really care. But he wants to give this an honest chance. “Xanax, coke…” he pauses. “It was this or jail,” he says. She smiles. Her eyes are dark and kind and her cheeks have a permanent flush like she’s always too cold or too hot. _

_ “Well, I’m sure this’ll do you some good then. When was the last time you used?” _

_ He pauses, thinks back. “I took a Xanax this morning. Haven’t done coke in a few days.” She nods along, taking some notes on her chart. “Maybe three,” he says, and she pauses to look up at him again. _

_ “Three Xanax, or three days?” she asks. Shane just nods, and she makes a note. _

_ “Alright well let me show you around. I’m Desiree, and I’m the staff coordinator here at Mountain Ridge…” she continues on, and Shane follows her listlessly, doesn’t listen to much of her guidance but looks around the place anyway. He isn’t looking forward to this -- three months in treatment -- but he’s trying to. _

***

_ October 2018 _

His guitar is singing still, leaned up against the wall. He had to set it down as he doubled over, gasping in laughter. “What?” Eugene asks, huffing.

“Gene,” Ryan says, pausing to try to catch his breath, “I don’t think telling the dude you’re crushing on that he should hook up with chicks is exactly flirting.” The group laughs again; Eugene perched on the back of the couch, Ryan sitting between his knees, 

Steven looks over at them and shakes his head, says, “come on, guys. We’re supposed to be coming up with a name for our band.”

"Oh fuck off, I am not _ crushing _ on him. You know the only things I feel are hunger and horniness!" Eugene continues, ignoring Steven completely. "Besides, he _ should _ try it. It's fun."

Shane drops his head into his hands and sighs. Eugene continues to pout. 

“It is not a dumb thing to say Andrew_thony_, shut your mouth,” Eugene says just as Andrew opens his mouth to speak.

“I didn’t even say anything, but no… yeah it’s a pretty dumb thing to say if you like this dude.”

“Whatever! If you’ve never tried it… _ Andy _… it’s worth a shot.”

“Yeah, no thanks. Just not for me,” Andrew replies. Ryan is still laughing between Eugene’s knees.

“But how do you know? Give it a shot!” Eugene says, and Andrew shakes his head.

“No way.”

“Ugh. All of my friends are so… so… _ heteroreluctant! _” Eugene says, and everyone laughs again.

“As a bisexual, I resent that,” Shane says, and Eugene amends, “aside from Shane.”

Ryan finally catches his breath and leans back to look at Eugene. He takes a moment, and then says, “what about me? I’m pretty sure I play with more pussy than any of you.”

The room is deadly silent, until everyone erupts into laughter. Ryan’s face is flushed, he seems like he can hardly breathe, and even Eugene has given up the fight and is laughing along. He reaches down to slap at Ryan’s head lightly.

“Wait,” Steven says, “what did you say? Hetero Reluctant? Band name!” Everyone is laughing until they aren’t, and the sound of it sits with them a while. It’s funny, and interesting, and not something they’ve heard before. It fits; it’s just as off-kilter as they are.

They jam for a while, a few hours, letting Saturday drift along lazily around them. Eventually Eugene has to get ready and take off for a show. Before he leaves, Shane stops him at the door. “Hey, just… a heads up or whatever, I’m pretty sure Zach likes you too so, y’know. Don’t stress about it,” he says. Eugene scoffs, slinging his heavy bag over his shoulder.

“Who says I’m stressed?” he asks, and then kisses Shane’s cheek as he pulls the door open, “but thanks, babe.”

They keep playing, and the whole time Shane just thinks about the name, about how names have power and now they’ve named the band; he thinks about how he should name this thing with him and Ryan. They’re together, that much is clear, but they haven’t discussed it at all in these four months.

Andrew is rolling out a drumline, following the cadence of Ryan singing _ Sigh Fury _ while Steven frets about on his bass. Their old, second-hand instruments. Shane’s old guitar feels heavy in his arms; he can’t shake the memory of his mom and dad looking on excitedly while he opened the huge wrapped gift on Christmas. It seems like a lifetime ago.

They pause and he walks into the kitchen, leaning against the counter and sipping on a beer. “You okay?” Ryan asks from the doorway. Shane startles, looking up at him. He nods, but Ryan seems unconvinced. “You’ve been out of it all day. You sure?”

Shane shrugs. “I dunno. Just thinking about stuff I guess.” 

Ryan frowns before calling him on it, “what kind of stuff?”

Discomfort. Clear in his posture. Shane feels caught out and guilty of something. "My..." he starts, but then pauses. "My guitar. It's just... old. Kind of junky. I've had it since I was back in Illinois," he says.

"You must have had it a long time, then," Ryan answers. There's subtext in the words. There's something happening here that Shane doesn't think he's ready for. Shane nods. “And you feel like you should have moved on from your,” Ryan pauses, clearly trying to find the right words, trying to say something by saying something else, “from your old guitar. From Illinois.”

Shane shrugs. He gets the feeling that Ryan knows what’s really bothering him. He’s consistently surprised by how clever and quick he is.

“Look,” Shane starts, “let’s just… It is what it is. Let’s get back to practice.”

Ryan frowns, but he gestures with an arm and leads him back out into the living room. Shane picks up his guitar and holds it delicately in his hands, looking at the worn wood, dull where the polish has faded, the old sticker on the neck that his brother stuck on when he was sleeping. He shakes the thoughts away, and they play on until Shane and Ryan have to head to The Jazz; one of the rare nights where both of them are working the same shift.

***

Weeks pass, and October is almost over. There’s a chill in the air that brings Shane’s mood down, but somehow, wrapped up in blankets on Ryan’s bed, leaning close against him as they pour over the big leatherbound notebook, it’s like sitting by a fire. Like staving off the wind.

“No, no, hold on. We’ve almost got this one,” Ryan says as Shane tosses down his pen. “Listen, listen,” he says, and then he hums through some of the melody he’d been working on. “_ Look down into that well, Full up of copper coin, Used up all the wishes, To find…. _” he pauses, thoughtful, his pen tapping against the page where the words give way to an empty space. 

“Something… to find something…” Shane ponders. “A… path…?”

Ryan nods. “Ok, ok. _ To find a path… to… _” he sighs. “A path to join?” he says, unsure. Shane grins.

“Yeah!”, he says, and Ryan laughs. He writes it down, though, and they read back over the verse before slipping back into the chorus; their voices shifting together.

“_I’m vapid baby, Got no worth, Nihilistic baby, Ever since my birth _…”

It flows, and their harmonies sound good. The way their voices contrast against one another, they seem to slot together as if they were made to. Shane's low and gentle tamber, Ryan's strong pure voice. They just fit.

"You know," Ryan says, "we've got like… a decent amount of lyrics. Once we get some more of the music down we should start thinking about landing a gig." There’s a sudden tension in the back of Shane’s mind at the suggestion; like an itch, like a chill runs through the room. Fear is something that he thought he'd mostly gotten used to. But here, safe and warm in bed with Ryan, it falls on him like snow.

"You sure we're ready?" Shane asks. Ryan looks up from the page. "I mean, we only have a few songs." 

Ryan’s eyes shine with excitement and Shane feels guilty about his apprehension. Guilt, fear; that old familiar itch under his skin. "Dude, we've got this," Ryan says.

In that moment Shane realizes Ryan is meant to be a star. He knows this like he knows his own name. The confidence radiates from him like light as he snuggles in closer and Shane can’t help but worry that his hang ups and insecurities will only dim that. Ryan is the sun; and here Shane is feeling like a bitter wind; like a dark cloud heavy hearted and full of rain.

“You’re right,” Shane says, shoving all of it away. He wraps his arms around Ryan and pulls him close, kisses the side of his head, his cheek, his lips. He kisses him, and slides the notebook off to the side, and he kisses him more so that he doesn’t have to speak for fear that he’ll let the levees break and flood all their hard work with his apprehension.

“I love you,” Ryan says. Shane looks down at him, at this glorious, beautiful person beneath him. His heart is thunder in his chest; Ryan’s eyes flash like lightning. “I love you, Shane,” he says again. And then he pulls him down to kiss him soundly, and when their chests press together Shane can feel Ryan’s heart fast against his ribs; their hearts pounding together like a drumming song. Ryan’s eyes, his lips, his hands; it’s all Shane can see, like a beacon. In his bed, in his arms, the cold doesn’t seem so bad.

“_We don't even care, as restless as we are, We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts, And poured cement, lamented and assured, To the lights and towns below, Faster than the speed of sound, Faster than we thought we'd go, beneath the sound of hope... _” Shane sings, his voice tired and raspy, his lips resting against Ryan’s neck.

“Smashing Pumpkins?” Ryan mumbles, “so romantic.” Shane laughs, but doesn’t move his lips from Ryan’s skin. They’re wrapped up and warm, and outside a fierce wind blows. “_I used to be a little boy, So old in my shoes, And what I choose is my choice, What's a boy supposed to do?, The killer in me is the killer in you, My love, I send this smile over to you, _” Ryan sings, quietly.

***

_ January 2017 _

_ He settles in and adapts fairly well to the whole rehab thing once he detoxes. He goes to therapy and he talks about a lot of things and it's nice; to express all of this to someone so far removed from his life, a perfect stranger. It gives him hope. Still, though, that itching burn pushing him to squander it, to cast it all aside and go straight back to where he’s been is on him constantly. _

_ “So Shane,” Jacob says, drawing everyone’s eyes to him, “what I thought we might do today is go around the circle and say a few words about what our addiction is, what it means to us.” He squirms under the weight of eyes, Jacob’s most of all. He’s an intimidating man, for all of Shane’s height he’s a bit more willowy than he’d like, but Jacob is tall and thick with built muscle. He looms over everyone in the facility. _

_ “Um, okay....” Shane says, sitting quietly for a moment. “Addiction is like a sunburn. A constant itch, but it sits just under my skin. So it doesn’t fade or shed. It’s like… a whisper. It always tells me, ‘just one more time’ or ‘take another pill’ or ‘you’re better off.’ And I tell myself it’s wrong; like I rationalize it and tell myself that it’s just me, right, it isn’t an actual _ ** _thing_ ** _ telling me to do things. But sometimes… sometimes it’s so distant that it almost seems like it is; like it is an actual presence in my head, a demon as they say. It seems so far removed from me, when I’m sober and lucid, even when I’m in the midst of it sometimes… it seems like it can’t be me, it has to be something else.” _

_ Jacob is nodding along, eventually he says, “you’ve got quite a way with words, Shane. Have you ever written poetry? Or music?” Shane shakes his head and Jacob chuckles. “You should try it.” _

***

_ October 31 2018 _

Shane wakes up and feels conflicted. It’s his favourite holiday, but the onset of these last few months, the end of the year, has him braced in anticipation of winter’s first frost. He knows it will cull his smile; he hopes it won’t but above all else he’s a logical man. He can recognize patterns, and he can hope for the best. Sometimes, though, he fails to do either.

Either way there’s a tension in his spine when he wakes up; there’s a chill in the air and the morning is quiet. It seems like everyone is already out; so he takes his time setting up the coffee and stepping into the shower. He has the whole afternoon to himself; has the day off by some miracle. Even though Ryan has to work tonight, he’ll be off early enough that there is no way he’s getting out of this Halloween without a party. It has him smiling against the hot water, grinning while he pours coffee. It has him singing through the house as he tidies up while everyone is gone.

“_ Sister, can't you see, His mark upon your skin, Open your heart, And let the devil in _…”

By the time Shane is finishing up the dishes, yelling along with the album, the boys get back. They startle him, coming through the door, and he drops the mug he was drying. “Fuck,” he says, calmly. Bending down to pick up the four big pieces of jagged ceramic.

“Sorry dude,” Keith says while he grabs the broom. Shane waves it off; it broke cleanly into big parts. If he wanted to he could epoxy it back together. As it is, he’s feeling particularly detached from his nostalgia, and he doesn’t mind anything that he still has from before moving to California going away. In the back of his mind he makes plans to swap out his guitar; to finally put the past down and walk away from it.

People will be over soon. The boys unpack bags of bottles and fill the drawers of the fridge with beer. Zach and Ned decorate, and by the time the sun has gone down _ I Shall Die Here _ is blaring through his speakers and the party has begun.

The thudding bass, the beer in his fist, the shot he’s just taken. It’s all a perfect storm and Shane feels more relaxed than he has in years. It must be getting late, the party started hours ago, but it isn’t quite late enough because Ryan isn’t here yet.

He tugs at the neck of his skeleton onesie, undoes the zipper a little bit. It’s warm; he feels hot and he’s shivering with the energy. He steps away into his room and sits on the bed for a second, enjoying the clamour and din and the thudding noise of it. He takes a deep breath, then another. And then he unlocks the cabinet on his desk and pulls out his weed and rolls a joint. He’s barely lit it before the door opens and Ned pokes his head in. Shane waves him over, and he slips in quickly and shuts the door. “Thank God,” Ned says. “I was looking for you.”

Shane shrugs, holds out the burning joint, and leans back when Ned takes it. “How’s the party?” he asks and Ned laughs. He takes a long slow drag and then passes it back.

“Not bad, not bad. This might even come close to a couple of the ragers we threw when I was in college,” Ned answers. He doesn’t mention it often, stuff they did before they moved out here. It’s something Shane has always felt thankful about, even if at times it makes him think that Ned still thinks he’s fragile. Maybe he was, for the first year. But this is different. He’s stronger, and he’s happier, and he almost never wants to die anymore.

“Yeah, well. We’re a bit older than that now,” Shane says and Ned raises an eyebrow. “What?” Shane says, laughing, “almost a whole year since you got your degree. That’s a long time.” He snuffs out the roach in the ashtray and stands to head back out, but Ned doesn’t move. Shane sits back down slowly.

“I’m proud of you, Shane,” he says after a long moment. Shane doesn’t say anything. This is one of those things, one of those kinds of attention that twists at his gut. “I know that’s… whatever. I’m just really happy to see you happy. You know? You look good with a smile there, Donnie Darko.”

Shane laughs, waves it off like clearing smoke. He picks up his sweating beer and takes a swig. “Yeah yeah, I love you too man. Now let’s party!”

He walks back out into the living room and basks in the noise of it for a while. He notices someone messing with his guitar where it’s been leaned up against the wall next to the rest of the instruments and he moves to step in.

“Nice guitar, man,” the guy says. “You guys in a band?” Shane nods. “That’s sick. I’ve been trying to plan a house show. If you think you’d be into it I’ve been looking for more bands.”

Shane feels tension; a balancing act between two polarities; this could be a huge opportunity for them. This would be a great excuse to get them to finally perform and really take this seriously. But his nerves; the hollow fear of it… He nods, jerkily, tipping the scales and tumbling off one side of the tightrope. His desire to support Ryan, and Steven and Andrew, in this band weighs more heavily than his desire to give in to his shame. Regardless, he’s flooded with regret as he stands there, cradling his stupid old guitar, thinking about all the mistakes surrounding him. It has the walls closing in; it has his vision blurring, the strings along the neck just a silvery gauze over the wood. It has him stricken for a moment before he heads toward the bathroom. Two people look up from where they’re cutting lines on the counter. “You want in?” one of them asks. The itch, the burn, that flooding frigid chill like river water; like mountain streams, ice in his veins.

“Y…” he pauses. They’re looking over expectant; the credit card poised over the pile to cut another line; the white powder sitting on the counter like snow. “Yeah,” he says. “Count me in.”

Smashing Pumpkins playing from the speakers; he thinks of Ryan. He leans forward and holds up the straw and inhales as deep as he knows how, and it’s like falling into a pool. It’s like waking up, suddenly and all at once. He leans back up and his head rushes and the burning tingle of it fades into a numbness across his face like a blush. He looks in the mirror, and his eyes are blown wide, and his mouth is loose in a smile.

“_ I'm the face in your dreams of glass, So save your prayers, For when you're really gonna need 'em, Throw out your cares and fly, Want to go for a ride? _” 

He makes his way back out into the party and his thoughts are loose like smoke. Like the cigarette between his fingers, the music failing to keep up with his pounding heart. He forgets to be afraid of all of this. He forgets that he should feel things, anything at all, other than this bright light of euphoria.

“_ Emptiness is loneliness and loneliness is cleanliness, And cleanliness is godliness, and God is empty just like me... Intoxicated with the madness, I'm in love with my sadness. _”

“Hey,” someone says from behind him, Shane turns and his face splits into a grin when he sees Ryan walking in through the front door. He laughs, wild, and Ryan quirks his face in confusion. “You must be wasted,” he says, laughing, and Shane leads him back through the crowd into the kitchen. He pulls a beer out of the fridge but then just sets it on the counter and backs Ryan up against the edge.

“Glad you could make it,” he says and Ryan laughs. Shane leans in and kisses him, frantic with the energy of the night.

“Calm down dude,” Ryan laughs, shoving him away lightly. He reaches over and grabs his beer, popping the tab and swallowing some down. Shane catches his reflection in the window and hastily wipes at his nose with the sleeve of his costume. “I would have been here earlier,” Ryan says, startling his attention away from his reflection, “but I didn’t want to show up with no costume.” He’s painted his face like a classic sugar skull, the jagged lines of the teeth over his lips smudged from Shane kissing him.

Shane sniffles, and then reaches back behind Ryan. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and takes a long sip directly from the mouth. “You look great,” Shane says, soaking in the way Ryan smiles, the light radiating off of him.

“_ I never let on, that I was on a sinking ship... I never let on that I was down...You blame yourself, for what you can't ignore, You blame yourself for wanting more… _” Ryan sings along, his voice beautiful and his eyes bright. Shane feels like he’s supposed to be nervous or guilty about something, but he can’t think of what it could possibly be: When everything is so perfect all around him; when his arm is over Ryan’s shoulder as they walk back toward the living room to find Ned; when Ryan leans up to press a kiss against his collarbone where his onesie has slid down more. It’s sunshine; it’s a garden; he feels the night like a warm bath around him.

The crowd seems to be thinning out a bit, other parties or other plans or other lovers drawing people back out into the chilly autumn night. Shane finds himself sitting on the deck, looking out over the yard that no one ever takes care of. His friends are by his side; Zach perched in Eugene's lap, Ryan tucked against his side, Keith talking excitedly with Ned about something. The rest of the band is still inside, the music is still thudding through the walls. He came down and now feels restless with the want for more, more, more. Never enough. He lights another cigarette. He lights another cigarette. He smokes his way straight through a pack.

"You feeling alright?" Ryan asks. Ned looks over and eyes Shane with something barely concealed. Fear. Fear that he’s slipping; that he’s fallen headlong; that he’s burying himself beneath the heavy weight of all his mistakes again. Fear that Ned can tell; if anyone could it would be him, he’s seen him in the thrall of it too many times before.

“Yeah,” Shane says, snuffing out the cigarette and slapping his palms on his knees. He wants more. “You guys wanna play some music?” he asks, standing suddenly enough that it almost throws Ryan off balance. He walks back into the house and Ryan trails him, Ned follows shortly after. He needs a minute, shuts himself in the bathroom.

His eyes look fine, there’s nothing on his nose leftover, but the sour haze of panic is drowning him. It feels hot, muggy, and he strips off the onesie to sit roughly on the floor in his underwear, his back against the cold ceramic of the bathtub. The door opens but he doesn’t open his eyes until he feels a gentle hand against his forehead. “Shane,” Ned says, and he looks up at him. “I just want… just tell me… fuck.” He can hardly get the words out. “If anything happens you’ll tell me right? If you make a mistake or slip up… you’ll let me know?”

Shane nods, and the whole time he feels his heart sinking into his gut. “Don’t…” he stops. He was going to say ‘don’t worry,’ but he finds he can’t force the words out. “Don’t tell Ryan,” he says, instead. “It was just… I only did one line.” Ned’s face breaks, his mouth downturned, his eyes look hollow and haunted. “Promise, okay? It was just one… it won’t happen again. Ned I promise you.” He hopes it’s a promise he can keep. God, out of all the things he’s ever promised he hopes this is the one he sticks to. “Ned,” he says. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds childlike and afraid. He feels so small on the floor of the bathroom. A blessing or a curse, Ned nods. 

“I won’t tell him if it doesn’t become a problem,” he says, amending the promise. He reaches a hand out to help Shane up, but he waves it away.

“I’ll be out in a minute, I just need to chill here for a bit.” Ned nods again, and leaves him to lean his head back and take huge, gulping breaths. His heart hurts, it feels like it wants to break free; a bird in a cage. He’s shaking with the fear of everything around him.

Eventually he finishes shaking apart and he stands up. There’s some remnants on the counter by the sink, where the two guys were sloppy cutting lines. He runs his finger around, picking up as much as he can, and rubs it on his gums.

He ends up in the living room eventually, sitting on the couch and staring at his guitar. It suddenly seems enormous; _ Mount Everest _, he thinks. Everything is piling up in front of him. The party is over, the music died down, and he looks away to find his friends all in the room with him, talking away. Ned’s eyes are hot on him. Ryan is next to him scrolling on his phone, a bong gets passed around. Halloween ended hours ago. It all really sinks in. He’s made a series of fatal errors tonight, and he doesn’t know how to move past any of them.

***

_ January 2017 _

_ He wakes up and he has breakfast and he goes to therapy and he spends time writing and he goes to group. The whole time he thinks about the last few months, the long march through winter. He thinks about all the years he spent miserable, and he writes about it. _

_ He wakes up and he has breakfast and he goes to therapy and he spends time writing and he goes to group. The weeks drag on. He fills a notebook and Jacob gives him another. And then he fills that one too. And he wakes up. And he wakes up. And all the while he wishes he wouldn’t. _

_ *** _

_ November 2018 _

Shane doesn’t sleep after Halloween. He lies down with Ryan and they fuck in his bed and then he sits up all night, staring at a blank page in the notebook. He’s lost in thought, lost in fear. He can recognize that he’s made a grave error and now he just sits with a rose blooming jagged and bloody and stubbornly late in his chest. He writes a few lines and tears the whole page out, frustrated.

Carefully, he slides out of bed and steps into some clothes and walks out to the back porch, to sit in the cold morning, the blue light just before dawn softening the edges of everything. He can still feel the phantom mask of numbness across his face. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much, so fiercely.

***

_ February 2017 _

_ Eventually, his therapist takes an interest in his writing, and when he tells her it’s mostly been poetry she encourages him to share some at group, to consider writing a volume. Maybe even to write about addiction. “Run out the ghosts, Shane,” Emma tells him, “burn some sage, and then let them out.” _

_ So he does. He sits and thinks about his addiction and he writes poem after poem after poem. And eventually when Jacob asks him to share at group he reads one, and everyone is encouraging, and it fuels him. So he writes and writes and he dreads going to sleep because he has to put down the pen, and he looks forward to waking up for the first time in years. _

_ And it’s nice, and he opens up more. And things seem to be turning around. And by March he’s finished his first volume. _

_ Emma smiles, holding the notebook in her hands. She leans forward to place it on her desk in front of Shane. “It’s wonderful,” she says, “it really is. You could get published.” _

_ Maybe he could, maybe he even wants to. But that is the greatest terror of all. What he’s afraid of most is people knowing him. _

***  
_ November 2018 _

The coffee brews in the kitchen while Shane is frozen still on the couch. The sun rises without fanfare, the day begins, and all of yesterday feels distant. Warped and faded like an old photograph. Zach is the first one up, leaving his room with a flush to his cheeks and hickeys on his neck. He’s shirtless, so Shane can see the hickeys continue at least down to his hips through the hair on his chest and stomach. He grabs a mug, and pours some coffee, and walks out to the couch to sit next to Shane and lean over. Shortly after him, Eugene comes strolling down the hall in a manner which conveys that he’s hoping for subtlety and aiming for stealth but failing to approach either. 

Eugene chugs some water, searches in the fridge and emerges victorious with a Gatorade. He walks over and collapses down onto the couch as well. His skin hot where it touches Shane’s leg, his head resting in Zach’s lap. Shane’s thoughts are a storm front; fog on the coast; the fog of cream in the coffee. They’re talking; someone is talking anyway, but Shane feels so distant that the noise of it is muffled. He’s drifting, adrift, apart, alone. He moves from the couch and wanders out to the back porch again to smoke. It’s chilly. Winter is setting in and unsettling his stability like it always does.

“Well,” Ryan says as he opens the sliding glass door and steps through, “that was a hell of a party. And it looks like Zach had some fun.” Shane looks over and smiles, but he doesn’t respond. Ryan sits down, pressing his hot mug of coffee against Shane’s arm. “You must have woken up pretty early,” he says. Shane doesn’t want to admit that he hadn’t slept. Doesn’t want to say anything in fear that if he does the levees will break and he’ll say it all.

“We have a gig,” he says suddenly. It startles him as much as it surprises Ryan. “Just before Thanksgiving.”

“That’s amazing!” Ryan says, grinning and laughing. Shane smiles, he thinks. He tries to. He makes a solid effort to put on a happy mask, anyway. “Wow,” Ryan says, “our first gig. I can’t wait! Is it like a bar? House show? Tell me everything!”

And oh, lord. If only Shane could tell him everything. If only he wasn’t so afraid. “House show. Some dude was asking about the instruments in the living room last night. Last I saw he was talking to Teej so I imagine he knows more than I do.” 

The rest of the evening is mostly a haze in Shane’s mind. He hopes Ryan wont ask more. He hopes Ned will keep his promise. He stands and turns to head back in, the fatigue from lack of sleep bearing down on him. His actions from last night even heavier.

“I should probably grab some coffee,” Shane says, tossing Ryan a glance before opening the door and making his way back inside. He redirects, though, and heads for the shower instead. Under the hot water, he lets himself breathe rapidly, and he lets tears fall, and he thinks about all the ways he’s screwed things up this time.

The rest of the day passes in the same haze of the morning. He gets ready. He heads to work. He stares at the counter blankly, still absolutely exhausted from last night. Suddenly there’s a tap on his shoulder. "Shane my dude. You are positively out of it. What's going on?" Mika asks. They sit down on one of the bar stools and regard him casually.

"Just partied a little too hard for Halloween, bit tired," Shane lies. Mika doesn't call him on it but looks unconvinced. "Sorry boss," Shane says and Mika shrugs.

"Bar's empty, it's still early. Maybe run out and grab some espresso, kid," they say. Shane nods but doesn’t move. There is a moment of quiet before Mika gets up from the bar stool and heads back to their office. Shane turns his gaze to the windows and lets his mind just continue to wander. He doesn’t know what he can do to fix this. It's a zero-sum game he's playing. He knows he fucked up. Suddenly, his fear melts into a self reflected anger. 

No.

He won’t go down that path again. He has to do this for the band’s sake. For Ryan.  
  
He grabs a towel, wetting and wiping the counter down so that it’s freshly cleaned; he wishes he could wipe away last night, do it all over. As the afternoon rolls into the evening, the regulars arrive and Shane steels himself for the coming rush. Rushes and falls, Shane is underwater. Tide in and tide out. He hopes this time he can swim.

***

_ March 2017 _

_ He’s almost done with his three months. Three long months spent sober and forcing himself to confront his addiction head-on, clear-headed, frank and honest. He just has to make it to April, let spring arrive and bring him back to life. He feels like a rose blooming too late. A perennial with a warped sense of time. _

_ After his group session he heads back to his room, hunched over the notebook, sitting on his bed, and he writes. He thinks this is the last one; that this volume is finished. _

_“Would you have stayed if our hands never found each other in the dark?_  
_ Or if I never found my bravery, if I never found the words I whispered  
in the night?_

_Wouldn't the cards have still fallen? I just_  
_ don't want it to have been my fault._  
_ Maybe I am the slamming door, maybe I_  
_ am the Southern breeze. But can you blame_  
_ the wind for blowing? Can you blame me_  
_ for falling for you? I wish I knew. I wish I knew._  
_ I wish the purple outline of your hand would fade  
from my arm. I wish it would never fade._

_I pressed the flowers but they withered anyway. I pressed against you and let myself fall_  
_ asleep but you left anyway. I couldn't keep it quiet and safe;_  
_ I never could. I only feel safe when things are falling apart. Doesn't that make sense?_  
_ Doesn't that put the bruises in context?  
I would follow you into the depths of fear._

_Would you have stayed if_  
_ the broken glass  
remained on the kitchen floor?”_

_ He reads back over it, reads through the whole volume, and he feels something bright in his chest. Pride? Comfort? No, no. He feels emptiness like the ghosts are gone. He feels smoke in his lungs like sage. He feels like he’s exorcised his demons and left them trapped on the pages. _

_ He reads it to Emma and she smiles, a slow dawning grin. “It’s beautiful, Shane. It’s dark, but it’s lovely. You know, when we first met I wasn’t sure about you. But over these months I think I’ve got you figured out. You feel things so deeply. You let yourself follow your moods like the wind in your sail. Find an anchor. If it’s poetry, if it’s… you said you play guitar, right? If it’s music or poetry or painting. Find something that you can use to make up all the links in the chain to hold yourself still. Just find a harbour, find somewhere safe from the storm. That’s my advice.” _

_ Shane smiles, and it’s the first authentic smile to cross his face in months. _

***

_ November 2018 _

Practices pick up, become more frequent and intensive as the house show looms ahead of them. Andrew and Steven work on their rhythms and fretts, mapping out backbeats to their songs. Shane and Ryan spend their nights together, writing away, trying to figure out all of the songs they can. 

Shane is still scared, but he refuses to let that bring down the rest of the band. Pen in hand, he finds himself scrawling, the emotions within him dripping out like blood, like he’s cutting himself apart and decoupaging the pieces on the page. Each word a link in the chain, desperate to try to anchor him to something.

_Knock the tower over while I build it up_  
_ The river flows over like wine I drank up. _  
_ Shatter me on the ground, _  
_ Shove me jagged back together, _  
_ Take the parts of me you cannot bear _  
_ Watch me swallow them with gin. _  
_ Knock the tower over while I build it up. _  
  
_ I've lost count again. _  
_ I've lost myself again. _  
_ I've lost count again.  
Count me, count me in._

The words return to him from that night over and over like a broken record. His pen continues to scrawl.  
  
_ You want in? _  
  
He remembers the hesitation. The image of Ryan’s face flashes across his mind; grinning as he said yes.   
  
_ Count me, Count me in. _  
  
He remembers when Ryan said, “Fuck it. You idiots wanna start a band?"

The answer had come easily. At the time, he didn’t really think it would go anywhere and seemed like a fun idea. Now here he is, a week away from their first gig and Shane has just fucked up royally and now he’s worried that he is ruining everything.  
  
_ Count me, Count me in. _  
  
More words make their way across the page as he writes, Ryan asleep beside him. He feels like he’s drowning and the man next to him is his only lifeline. A buoy in the sea of his bad decisions.

_ Am I made of embers? _  
_ Can I rise with the breeze? _  
_ Will you scatter me like ashes, _  
_ Or will it all just cease? _  
  
_ The puzzle's nearly finished while I'm _  
_ Lost inside your eyes. _  
_ I'm Lot's wife outside Gomorrha, _  
_ Pillar of salt as my disguise _  
_ King Midas when it's worthless, _  
_ A growing tower shining gold. _  
_ Knock the tower over while I build it up, _  
_ Let them shiver in the cold. _  
  
He writes. Time moves forward and he can feel himself slipping away. They practice more and more, their songs growing and fully forming and being polished. Cleaner.  
  
He feels dirty.  
  
Finally, it’s the night of their debut. Shane’s digging through an old bag, something that has survived the miles and years between him and Illinois, searching for more guitar picks that he swears he still has. As he digs around in the bag he hears a rattle; a phantom noise from a previous life that stops him in his tracks. An old bottle of Xanax. A ghostly noose around his neck. There's only a few pills left. He should flush them, should toss the bottle and leave it all behind once and for all; but the anxiety in his chest has him hesitating. 

"You coming dude?" Ryan yells from the living room. Shane panics, snapped out of his memories, and grabs the whole bag on his way out of the room. He’ll deal with it after the show.

On the ride over, Shane sits simmering in his panic. The band is chatting excitedly, but all he can feel is the burning in his gut and the chill down his spine; fear skittering up and down his back like spiders. The orange glow of the streetlights; light and dark and light and dark, passing by in waves; tide in tide out. He can feel himself beginning to spiral. The bottle in the bag, buried at the bottom, is a sharp image in his mind. Temptation. Maybe one wouldn’t hurt? Maybe he should just take the edge off so he can get through the show and then flush the rest. Maybe he’s strong enough for it.

The house is small, cramped; tall and thin in an awkward way. They make their way down the stairs into the garage and start setting up. He feels mostly fine until he steps outside for a cigarette and sees all of the people crowding to get in. That old friend, that bitter enemy; the itch under his skin. He steals away to the bathroom, and he stares at himself in the mirror, breathing deep, trying to calm down.

***

_ April 2017 _

_ He’s out. It’s over. He has four notebooks in his bag and a feeling in his chest like summertime; like slow languid mornings. As he walks out he sees his dad, standing by the car and staring at his phone. His face is downturned. It’s starting to rain. _

_ He looks up, and offers a wave. “How’d it go, son?” he asks as Shane approaches. Shane just shrugs. _

_ “Well,” Shane says, tossing his bag into the backseat and walking around to the passenger. “I’m sober at least.” _

_ His dad laughs, with no mirth, and says, “well let’s just hope it sticks.” _

***

_ November 2018 _

His face in the mirror does nothing to resolve his fears. He sighs, and then he swallows one of the pills before he can argue with himself about it. It’s just this once. One won’t hurt. He just has to get through this show and shake off his nerves and he’ll be fine. He can do this.

“Hello, out there,” Ryan purrs into the mic. “We are Hetero Reluctant, how about you?” the crowd chuckles. “We thought we might start this night off with a cover, that sound alright?” He’s a natural. The crowd is in his hands already and they haven’t played a note. Standing there, off to Ryan’s side, his eyes on the soft profile of his face, Shane feels his nerves slipping away. The xanax is settling in; he thinks he should have snorted it to get through this faster, but he feels okay. They can do this.

“This is _ 12:51 _,” he says and Shane and Andrew start in; he hits a few chords and the beat starts out but then Steven jumps in and the music picks up. Ryan’s voice is strong, bolstered by being on the shitty stage in the garage of a shitty house.

He’s a star. He shines bright like the sun. “_ Talk to me now I'm older, Your friend told you 'cause I told her, Friday nights have been lonely, Change your plans and then phone me _ …” The crowd knows the song, they jump in for the chorus and even through the light haze draped over Shane from the pill he can feel the excitement of the room. The energy burning at him. “ _ Kiss me now that I'm older, I won't try to control you, Friday nights have been lonely, Take it slow but don't warn me…” _

By the time the song comes to a sudden stop the crowd is under Ryan’s thrall; like Shane has been since they met. Something magnetic in him, an iron core, it draws them all closer.

“Now let’s have some fun, boys,” he says. “_ Your eyes on me, _ ” he sings, and Shane echoes the last two words in harmony. “ _ They make me hot like fire… _ ” the thrumming bassline fades in while Shane’s attention fades out. His eyes are stuck fast on Ryan. “ _ Like a moth to a flame, like a burning desire… _” He keeps singing, working through the verses while the bass and the drums flicker in and out of Shane’s awareness. He starts up the guitar, hits his first chord and joins Ryan in singing the chorus.

“_ You’re like an imprint, A reflection of you on me, I can’t seem to escape it, You’re like an imprint, Looking back all I see, I don’t want to escape it, _” it’s his words; Shane’s hopes and fears, Shane’s love for Ryan, and they’re screaming them out loud. His heart seems to thud, one big jolt reminding him that he’s still present, and then the fear seems to leave him all at once. Everything is dulled and gentle, and the music is muddled, but he knows where he is and he feels steady. Anchored. Ryan is the sun, and right now Shane feels like everyone in the room is nothing but the solar system; caught in his orbit and basking in his glow.

They run through a few more songs, Ryan pausing to take huge gulps of water and chase it down with whiskey from the bottle on the chair next to him. Their set is running down, but as it goes on Ryan becomes more and more comfortable, belting out huge, long notes that they never practiced but fit so well. He’s a natural. His voice is as easy as the wind. They run through some more covers; _ Calm Before The Storm _ and they slow down with _ 1979 _, and then Ryan laughs into the mic. “Y’all gonna miss us when we’re done here?” he asks the crowd and they cheer. “Good, that’s what I wanted to hear. We’re gonna miss you too. So now we’re gonna turn up the juice and see what shakes loose. I want everyone on their feet. Show me how much you love us.”

Andrew starts a rolling beat on the drums, a quick roll on the rim of his set and then two quick snaps on a tight snare. Like a heartbeat. Shane feels like he’s just settling into it; like he could do this all night as long as these three guys are around him, up with him on stage. Steven joins, a quick staccato series of plucked notes giving way to the pace of the song, up and down but deep in his gut. It’s Shane’s turn, and he strums the first few chords, grinning.

“_ I’d say it a million times a day, And gladly listen to the echo of my own voice.” _

Shane joins him, “_ Don’t say anything lover, Don’t say anything.” _

“_ The words in my chest, The rhythm of the lines, Nothing left to tell you but, ‘I’ve made a hundred choices,’ _” Shane thinks about writing the song, what he’d meant when he wrote it, and how it hits him now. Different. Different choices and contexts and the words taking on a new meaning.

“_ Don’t say anything lover, _ ” Ryan sings, and Shane joins him again as Ryan looks back, delivers the words straight to him, “ _ Say you love me too… _”

The crowd is wild and rowdy, the din of their cheering nearly swallowing him up. There’s a magic at work, some ancient and wild spell holding them all suspended in the moment.

“_ I’ll cast fortunes into wells, To wish for you voice to sigh, Furious baby, _ ” and Shane behind like an echo, “ _ sigh, furious baby _”

“_ Don’t say anything, I’ve learned all your tells, Amazed how well you lie, Nothing left to tell you… _”

“_ Say it lover, Make yourself heard, The planchette on this spirit board, Taking off like a bird, Spell out your intentions, Don’t say anything lover… _”

Shane and Ryan sing the last line together, but Shane can’t look at him. His eyes are cast down on his guitar, on his fingers moving automatically across the strings.

“_ Don’t say anything, Don’t tell me it’s over. _”

The music fades and the crowd roars and it feels like something otherworldly. 

***

_ April 2017 _

_ From the outside looking in, his home is the same as before he left. His dad’s home, rather. The space he will be occupying. He hopes that things have changed; he surely feels they have. _

_ Spring has come and he can feel the heat of summer approaching. Everything is alive and in bloom. He feels excited. His future opening up before him. It’s not hard to get back into things, to walk back into his old life. His dad and Ned had already moved his stuff, since Ned had to move in with some friends when Shane took off. But he falls into his childhood bedroom and he visits his friends and he spends hours writing and rewriting poems until the volume is perfect. And it is, he thinks it is. Sixty pages of all his fears and insecurities, delicate words framing huge beasts; everything he tackled while getting better. In neat, beautiful script. By the time he finishes rewriting them, reworking them, five times six times seven times the charm; it’s something he feels as if he loves. This careful glimpse into his darkest hours. He’s never been so proud. _

_ Time dilates in his focus. Seven months flash by him and he’s almost ready to put it in the mail, to submit his manuscript and hope for the best. The first frost, as it often seems to, crushes him. _

_ *** _

_ November 2018 _

The show is a resounding success, he thinks. That’s his memory and if the wild grins on everyone else’s faces are any indication, he’s right. Mika comes bustling up out of the crowd just as Ryan launches himself at Shane and wraps his arms around his neck, kissing him breathless.

“Hell of a show, kids!” Mika says, shaking Andrew and Steven’s hands to introduce themself. “I don’t know if I ever mentioned this before, but I was in a band back in the day. ‘Binary Refrain’ we called it. Never really went anywhere, but you… Ryan you’re a hell of a singer!”

“Thanks, Mika,” Ryan says, gasping. He’s still held tight onto Shane. “What are you doing here, though?” he laughs.

Mika laughs too, feigns indignation. “What, an old creature like me can’t enjoy some local music? I love coming out to house shows. Reminds me of my youth,” they say. 

Suddenly, the other guys, all their friends, weave through the dispersing crowd. Andrew and Steven are already putting their gear away when they approach.

“Oh my god, guys, that was amazing. You didn’t even mess up any of the lyrics,” Ned teases with a smile, “good job!”Shane grins back, and Ryan's face is a mirror, his eyes sparking in mirth and pride. He’s beaming. "Yeah," Shane teases, elbowing Ryan, "good job with all those words, babe."

Ryan laughs and swats at his shoulder, stepping off to talk to some of the audience who stuck around.

Eugene walks up, wrapping him in a hug. "I'm proud of you Shaney," he says while Shane rolls his eyes. Ned laughs. Shane can join them, still calm aside from the adrenaline from performing. He thinks maybe he can do this. Tonight was fun, brilliant; he thinks that they're a lot better than he was giving them credit for.

Zach slides past Ned and leans into Eugene's space, whispers something to him that makes Eugene light up and laugh. Shane turns to start packing his own gear up when Ned approaches him with a smile. “You did great, Shane. Fucking spectacular. I knew you could do it. And sober, too!” he’s cheerful but it strikes Shane in the solar plexus and knocks the wind out of him. He freezes, lets the guitar case clap shut as the lid drops from his hands. “I know how stressed you get, man, but see? You can handle it.”

Guilt. The adrenaline leaves him at once and he is left wallowing in it. He wants to say something, but he’s too afraid. He wishes he could have done it, had never given in to the temptation. Hindsight might be twenty-twenty but Shane wants desperately not to even look back at all.

“Uh, yeah.” He says, after a long pause. “Thanks, dude.” Ned pulls him into a crushing hug, and with his face to the wall Shane lets his fear show, just for a second. As they finish packing up, and the lot of them head out back onto the sidewalk, Mika stops them by clearing their throat.

“You know,” they say, “you boys are great but your instruments are a bit rough around the edges. I bet I’ve still got some of our old gear around if you want it. Better than it collecting dust.”

The memory of a conversation with Ryan flashes through Shane’s mind:

_ "My guitar. It's just... old. Kind of junky. I've had it since I was back in Illinois," he says. _

_ "You must have had it a long time, then," Ryan answers. “And you feel like you should have moved on from your… from your old guitar. From Illinois.” _

Shane comes back to the moment suddenly, looks over at Mika and they smile back, “what do you say? Interested in some semi-new equipment?”

"Yeah," Ryan says, grinning, "of course. Thank you so much Mika!" It all seems to be coming together, but Shane is stuck in the past, conversations echoing around him. He feels hollow, suddenly, heavy like a thundercloud; like a stormfront. Ned’s eyes are on him.

“Well of course,” Mika continues, “I can’t exactly ask you to play at Le Jazz next weekend if you’re toting around third-hand equipment.”

The band is ecstatic. Shane is terrified.

***  
_ November 2017 _

_ The morning is bright and cold. Sharp like a razor blade. Jagged like ice. Shane sits at the kitchen table, pen in hand, polishing up the last stanza of the book he wants to publish. _

_ It all seems like a dream, everything leading up to this point in his life a roller coaster; a downward spiral, hard and fast; gut-drop twisting his stomach, bile rising in his throat. A wild ride, one he couldn't get off of and that wouldn't slow long enough for him to get his bearings. He didn't even care if he died when he inevitably crashed. _

_ But then, at the last minute. To suddenly be pulled back up, slowly climbing. The days pass like the clicks of the cable, he’s strapped into the car as he ascends and then he’s on top of the world. It’s as if he can see everything now that he has perspective. _ _ His father walks into the room. Frost. The rollercoaster is cresting. _  
  
_ “Shane, what are you doing?” _  
  
_ Shane looks up at him. He doesn’t sound happy. His hands are on his hips, and his eyes are on the book in front of Shane. _  
  
_ “I’m working on something.” _  
  
_ His dad’s eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “Actually, that’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Work. It’s been _ ** _months,_ ** _ son. When were you planning on getting up off your ass and finding a job? I agreed to let you stay here, but there are bills to be paid.” _  
  
_ Shane looks up at him with an indignant frown, the pen tip paused on the page, “I _ ** _am_ ** _ working on something. I’m going to publish it once it’s ready. It’s almost ready to--” _  
  
_ His father cuts him off. “No, what you need to do is get out there and find a job. A _ ** _real_ ** _ job. None of this childish fantasy land bullshit. The term ‘starving artist’ exists for a reason. It isn’t realistic, Shane. You’re off the drugs, you’ve had your vacation but now it’s time to grow up.” _  
  
_ Suddenly he can feel himself sinking again. The rollercoaster has started it’s decent. Like hail beginning to fall. It hits him hard and painful, crushing down. Anger. _  
  
_ “But dad, Emma said that I should--” _  
  
_ His dad interrupts him again, his voice firm as he steps closer. “No! You’ve been squireling yourself away in front of that goddamn book for seven months now and haven’t contributed anything to this household. It’s time to stop the playtime and face the real world.” _  
  
_ He reaches for the book suddenly, pulling it out from under Shane’s pen. The ink scrapes across the page like a scar. _  
  
_ The car on the track begins to pick up speed as it shoots towards the ground again. Like the falling snow. The bitter cold biting his soul. He doesn’t want to hit the ground this time. _  
  
_ “HEY! Give that back!” Shane growls, anger flaring as his dad begins to walk off with the book into the living room. He rises from his chair, trailing after him. His dad approaches the fireplace, the embers red hot, flames dancing wild and angry, warming the room. _  
  
_ “I really didn’t want to do this, but it’s just like you to not listen to anyone. Too caught up in your own selfish little world. It’s time to stop thinking only of yourself for once, Shane. I hope this teaches you that lesson.” _  
  
_ Shane watches in horror as his father throws the book into the fire unceremoniously. The edges of the pages instantly begin to curl as the flames lick them black. The demons trapped within those pages now let loose upon the world. All his hard work, gone. All that time spent, wasted. His heart and soul; everything he went through and faced. All gone up in smoke, his own world spiralling into darkness. Faintly he hears his father continue to speak, “now maybe without that book to distract you, you can focus on finding a job and bringing in some money. You need to be a productive member of society.” _  
  
_ As the frigid chill sets in, he feels the car barreling towards the ground. It crashes. He breaks. _

_ *** _  
_ December 2016 _

_ The heat from the sun is a stark contrast to the cold of illinois. The building he’s standing in front of towers over them both, Mr. Bergara explaining things while the words from his father continue to echo through his head unrelenting. _  
  
_ “Why did you do all this for me?” Shane interrupts to ask, and Steve shrugs, smiling brightly. He has great teeth, bright white and straight._

_ “You did some bad stuff,” he answers, holding out one hand, “and you did some good stuff,” he says, holding out the other. The two raise in a shrug. “Seems like it balanced out to me.” Then, clapping a hand on his shoulder, he says, “now make me proud, son.” _

_ He’s going to try, really, honestly give a go at it. He wants a cigarette, and he wants a xanax. But what he needs is to breathe different air and look at the same sky from different angles. _

_ “I will,” he says, and then walks through the door. _

_ *** _ _  
_ _ November 2018 _

The band gets back to Shane’s place late. Everyone’s idling in the living room, chattering in excitement and anticipation of their bright future. Shane excuses himself, the night’s events calling for a shower before bed. He needs to wash away the sweat from the lights. To wash away the feeling of eyes on him, the fear of disappointing. He needs to wash away his shame. Ryan’s smile follows him, a kiss on his cheek before he steals away. The stark white of the bathroom light casts upon his pale skin and Shane stares at himself in the mirror. He’s drowning, the bottle of mistakes ever present in his mind. The bag is over his shoulder as he closes the door behind him. He reaches into the bag to look at it; the bold text of the label on the side:  
  
**Xanax**  
**2MG**  
  
He pops the cap. He should flush them. Cast it off like he did the mistakes of his past. But something inside of him nags. The itch; the whispers telling him that he can’t do it. That he’ll end up disappointing the band. Disappointing Ryan. That he _ needs _ this.   
  
Flashes of memory of him on stage. The joy on Ryan’s face as he sang. He felt, in that moment, like he could do it. The Xanax had helped. His insecurities had melted away with the music they played and the roar of the crowd until it was just the four of them. Everything had been right. He felt grounded. He stares at the bottle in his hand.  
  
_ ‘It’ll be ok,’ _ he thinks, _ ‘it’s not that bad, really. I only took one and it helped.’ _  
  
The bottle is an enormous weight in his hand as he stares down into the toilet, his eyes glancing between the open bottle and the porcelain bowl.

_ ‘Maybe I should just… keep these around. For emergencies. I might not even need one next time.’ _  
  
The smooth plastic is hard in his right hand, the curve of the bottle in his left. Shane snaps the cap back on the bottle, tossing it back into the bag.  
  
‘No one needs to know. It’s not like I’m using it all the time. Just for when I need it,' he reaffirms, turning to the tub. He turns the handle and the spray from the shower runs, heating up. It fills the room with steam. The mirror fogs. He doesn’t look so pale now. He strips off his clothes and steps into the water, letting it wash over him. He feels like he’s trying to wash away his doubts. His fears.  
  
The spray falls off of him, the steam fogs everything. The water siphons down the drain. It’s hot. Anger and fear; shame. All the things he's tired of feeling.

All of the things he thought he'd left behind.

***

“So what I’m getting at is that after the show, everyone was asking about instagram and facebook. You need a social media presence,” TJ says. Zach pumps his fist, stands up to spin on Shane and point, yells, “told you so!”

“This can really go somewhere,” TJ continues, ignoring Zach’s interruption, “but you guys need to be on top of it. You’re really good, but that won’t help if no one knows where to find you.” Ryan is nodding along. His hand is on Shane’s thigh. The brown suede of the couch has captured Shane’s attention for the last ten minutes but Ryan’s fingers squeezing, just a quick little thing, snaps his eyes back up.

TJ is showing them logo options, poster designs, even merch. “Never thought that degree in graphic design would actually come in handy,” he jokes. All of it too much, it has Shane nervous. While he was staring into the smooth field of the couch he could see the future so clearly for them; fame. TJ is right, everyone is right. They _ are _ good. Andrew is confident and steady on the drums and his skill seems to multiply every practice. Steven was already a good bassist but by now he’s downright fantastic, easy and smooth, unafraid to take risks and improvise. And Ryan. He should already be there, should already have a career and reviews and albums out.

The idea of it is like being underwater. Like when Shane would dive to the bottom of the pool and sit there, hold his breath as long as he could in the muffled weight of it. He gets up and heads to the kitchen, fills a glass with water just to find a way to occupy his shaking hands. He swallows the water and his fear.

“You okay?” Ryan asks from the doorway. 

Shane doesn’t know what to say so he shrugs. “Guess so. This is just… real, you know? Like it’s really happening.” The answer doesn’t seem to clarify anything for Ryan.

“Exactly,” he says, “which is why we’re all stoked. So tell me what’s up.” Shane sighs.

“Just nerves,” he says. It’s an answer; part of one anyway. “I’m just tired and nervous. It’s nothing, really.” Ryan crosses the room and pulls him close, holds him there under the moonlight. 

“That’s alright. It’s gonna be fine,” Ryan says. He takes Shane’s hand and leads him back into his bedroom. Once the door closes, Ryan crowds him back against the wall and kisses him. It’s heavy, it’s desperate, there’s a tinge to it burning at Shane’s lips like he’s on fire.

Ryan takes control, tugging Shane over to the bed and pressing him down on top of the sheets. He kisses him again and then sits up, grabbing the journal and moving it to the table. “I love you,” he says, and Shane grins. The fear is bleeding from him, and he’s so enveloped with the shining light of Ryan that he almost forgets the darkness draped around him.

“Love you too,” Shane says, tugging Ryan back down to kiss him again. He sighs, smiling as Ryan kisses his neck.

“You wanna try something new?” Ryan asks, and Shane opens his eyes to look up at him. He nods, and Ryan reaches off the bed and drags a bag out from under. He rustles around in it and then tosses a bottle of lube up. Shane laughs, picks it up and reads the label. When he looks back over, Ryan is holding up a strap, a harness, smooth black leather with a shining toy jutting out from it. Ryan quirks an eyebrow and Shane laughs again.

“Tired of being on the bottom?” Shane teases and Ryan rolls his eyes. He strips his shirt off and Shane leans forward to help tug off his binder. “No, but I thought maybe it was time to give you a taste of your own medicine,” he says.

A flush rises across Shane’s cheeks. This won’t be the first time he’s been fucked, but it’s a first for the two of them. “Well, then,” he says. He kisses Ryan again, his lips and his neck, his collarbones, the hollow of his throat. Ryan presses a hand to his chest and shoves him back to lie flat. “Control suits you, Ry. You look so hot right now.”

“Oh, don’t get the wrong idea, babe. I’m _ always _ in control.” Ryan grabs the hem of Shane’s shirt and tears it off, tossing it to the side and running his hands up and down his sides, his thumbs teasing at his nipples when they’re in reach. “You look real good on your back, underneath me,” Ryan says. He’s straddling Shane’s hips and can obviously feel how hard he is. The harness is sitting off to the side and Shane can’t help but reach out and run his fingers along the length of the toy. Ryan grinds down, almost absently, as he leans back and digs his phone out of his pocket. He just sits there, rubbing his ass against Shane’s dick, while he fiddles with the phone. Music, a heavy thudding beat, starts playing from the speaker across the room. He grinds again and does something else on his phone and under Shane’s fingers the length of the toy begins to vibrate gently.

“Shit,” Shane says, and Ryan laughs. “You’re really going all out, aren’t you?” Ryan just shrugs, and then leans back to grind more heavily against him. “Well, you just gonna tease me all night?” Shane asks. Ryan sighs, and lifts his weight off of his lap.

“Don’t be impatient,” Ryan says. Regardless, he leans in to kiss Shane again and works on the button and zipper of his jeans. He pulls back to tug them off and his eyes still on the tent in his boxers and the dark wet spot where the head is pressing against the fly. “You really want this, don’t you babe?” Shane nods. It should be obvious. Anything, anything. Whatever Ryan will give him he will gladly accept.

Ryan swings his leg over and climbs off the bed, kicking off his tight pants and tugging his underwear off. He stands there, nude, for a while, just watching Shane’s eyes track up and down over his body. Shane tugs his underwear off too, and lies back down to put himself on display. “Well?” he says, “come and get it.”

Ryan laughs and Shane can feel the bed dip where his knees land on the mattress. He keeps his eyes closed. He reaches out toward Ryan but he feels firm hands grip his wrists and pin them down above him. Ryan lets go and Shane keeps his hands where they were put. Lips on his throat, a tease of teeth, tongue slowly running down his chest and stomach. He would laugh at the tickle, but he can’t find humor in anything that’s happening. His face is flushed and hot.

Ryan’s tongue grazes his nipples and Shane sucks in a harsh gasp, his eyes shut tight, his hands still. He feels fingertips run down his sides, feather light, and he sighs. “Tease,” he says, and Ryan huffs a laugh. He can feel his hot breath against his stomach, and then lips press down to suck a mark into his skin. Ryan kisses and sucks a burning trail downward, but misses his cock and bites at his hip instead, working his way down to kiss his thighs. Ryan’s hands slip down around his hips and under his ass, squeezing at him, and finally his tongue works up along the length of his dick. Shane can feel it twitch, growing impossibly harder. Rain crashes against the window. It’s just a game, just a tease, just light heat and wetness but no relief. He suppresses the urge to buck his hips forward, to seek pressure. Ryan licks at the head of his dick where he’s leaking a puddle onto his stomach and it jumps upward, toward his mouth. He pulls back and blows a light breath against the wet skin. Shane whines.

Ryan continues to tease at him, but moves lower to suck on his balls as he groans. Shane spreads his legs wider and Ryan leans in to fill the space. Ryan moans, and when Shane opens his eyes he sees him toying with himself while he continues to play with Shane. His control is slipping, he wants desperately to reach out and press Ryan’s head down, to make him take the length of him in his mouth. As Ryan grabs one of his thighs and lifts his leg, he shuts his eyes again and rests it on his shoulder. Ryan’s slick fingers, wet from his pussy, slide along his thigh and press against his hole. Shane shouts, a short guttural noise. His fingers are warm, his breath is warm, and in Shane’s gut is a burning heat like a furnace. A pilot light, a ghost light on a stage.

“You ready baby?” Ryan asks. Shane nods, can’t open his mouth or risk a litany of obscene noise spilling out. “Say it,” he says, “tell me how bad you want me.” Shane goes to open his mouth but then Ryan presses a finger in and the words die on his tongue; he just moans. 

Ryan keeps pumping his finger in and out, and Shane hears a pop of a cap before the cool lube drizzles against his hole where Ryan is spreading him open. He adds a second finger and Shane presses down against the feeling of it. “Christ, Ryan. Fucking give it to me,” he says. The rain picks up, slamming against the window and wall, a crack of thunder rumbles ominously. The music continues thudding, and Shane can feel it in the bones of his chest as his heart thuds out of time.

Ryan pulls his fingers back and Shane can hear him fumbling with something, can hear leather straining against metal buckles. He can hear the low hum of the vibrations, and the way Ryan sighs. He’s about to open his eyes when he feels Ryan’s tongue tease along his cock again, and then press against his hole. He gasps, arching his back. Ryan laps at him, flicking his tongue back and forth over him where he’s spread open and loose, and then slides in to render him speechless. His eyes are shut so tight he sees stars dancing in the darkness.

Ryan pulls back minutes later and he once again hears the cap of the lube snap open and then shut. He wants to look, but he refuses to open his eyes. As it is, even without seeing how Ryan looks with his face flushed, he’s dangerously close to cumming.

Ryan lines up the toy with his hole, and presses in so slowly that by the time he bottoms out Shane feels like he’s going to combust. The slow vibration picks up, incrementally, until it has Shane shaking with it. He feels full, burning hot, the flush spread down from his cheeks and onto his chest. He’s shaking, and then Ryan starts to move.

The song switches, and the bastard must have timed all of this out perfectly because the thudding beat of _ Closer _ times up with his thrusts perfectly until he speeds up. Shane is overwhelmed, moaning and biting out curses and whining. He can feel sweat beading up on his forehead, pooling at the base of his throat. Ryan reaches a hand up, presses two fingers against Shane’s lips and he opens them easily, takes them in and sucks, toys at them with his tongue. When they pull back, Shane can’t help but open his eyes and watch as Ryan dips them down between the harness and his pussy. Shane’s hips buck up and Ryan’s other hand reaches down to hold him tight against the mattress. “You want this cock?” Ryan asks, “you want me to fuck you until you can’t walk? You want everyone to know what you’ve been up to?”

Shane feels a relief as he shouts, cursing out loud over the noise of the song and the rain, and he cums across his stomach and chest; one shot hits his face and he licks it up without a thought.

“Yeah, that’s it baby,” Ryan says, running his fingers through the mess and then pressing them into Shane’s mouth again. He can taste himself. He can feel as Ryan loses rhythm for a moment and hear his groan as he cums too. He leans down and kisses him, the change in angle has Shane whining into Ryan’s mouth. It’s filthy. It’s beautiful. He can taste his own cum and he can taste Ryan and the mixture is something so damn filthy that his dick is already twitching and getting hard again between them. Ryan shifts his angle again and Shane cries out as the toy rumbles against his prostate.

Ryan keeps fucking into him and he bears down on the toy; his hands grasp at the sheets and his nails dig in to keep them right where Ryan put them. “You’re just a little slut aren’t you?” Ryan says, his lips right against Shane’s ear. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. He’s burning up with the heat of it. “Why are you being so quiet, huh? Don’t want everyone to know what a slut you are? Scream, baby. Let the whole neighborhood hear who’s fucking you so good.”

He opens his mouth to comply, but he can’t speak. He’s panting, getting dangerously close for the second time, and Ryan shows no signs of slowing down. It’s so much, too much, it’s perfect. He’s shaking apart, can hear the noise of his bones rattling -- or maybe that’s another thunderclap overhead, maybe it’s the windows, maybe it’s nothing at all. Language has left him.

“F-” he starts, gasping as Ryan buries in to the hilt. The toy vibrates faster and his hips jump upward, the shifting angle pressing it deeper. “Fuck!” he manages.

“Say it.” Ryan commands. The tone of his voice, the control he has over Shane; it’s as terrifying as it is undeniably sexy. “Say it.”

Shane shouts, “fuck me. Fuck me Ryan!” and hears Ryan groan as he cums again. His fingers grip into the meat of his thighs where they’re wrapped tight around his waist and he lifts them up, practically folds Shane in half to fuck into him even harder. “Ryan, Jesus. Fuck me!” he shouts again, and then his whole body jolts as he cums for a second time, all over his chest.

Ryan slows, laying Shane back down and moving gently back and forth while he slowly lowers the speed of the vibe. It has Shane shaking again, panting like an animal. Eventually Ryan pulls out and the emptiness has Shane whining into the pillow as he tucks his head to the side. Ryan’s fingers run through the mess he’s made of his chest, running through the hair there and spreading his cum around, playing with it.

“Jesus,” Shane gasps when he catches his breath. Ryan’s hands frame his jaw, his thumbs resting under his chin. He opens his eyes and Ryan’s pupils are blown so wide his eyes look pitch black in the low light of the room. Ryan leans in to kiss him, and he finally moves his hands to wrap them around his neck and hold him close.

They’ll have to get up and shower soon. But until then, he sighs satisfied and kisses his boyfriend like there’s nothing else in the world. His fear behind him, his troubles in a pile on the floor like Ryan’s clothes. He forgets what had him so worried in the first place.

***

When Shane wakes up it’s because he can hear noise in the living room. Laughter and thumping footsteps and music. He reaches out before opening his eyes, stretching all the way to the edges of the bed and finding himself alone. But he can hear everyone out in the living room, moving back and forth toward the front door, all his friends laughter dragging him up to pull on sweats and step out the bedroom door while he stifles a yawn with his arm. He looks up and runs a hand over his hair; it’s grown out more than he’s let it in a while. The music is loud, pouring through the house like an overflowing sink. "_ It's like a drug for you, Do ever what you want to do, Coming over you, Keep on smiling, what we go through, One stop to the rhythm that divides you _..."

He walks out into the living room and sees the front door open, and across the room against the wall a bright, shining drum set standing just next to the impressions the old one had left in the carpet. He turns toward the front door and walks out into the morning to see everyone out at the sidewalk, pulling things from Mika’s van. Three bass guitars; mic stands and speaker systems and a keyboard; a beautiful acoustic that shines like it’s wet, deep red wine wood finishing; next to that a couple of electrics. It all looks brand new. “Hey kid, you gonna give us a hand?” Mika shouts, and Shane’s eyes cast away from the equipment to see everyone looking over. Ryan reaches out, waving him over, beckoning with his fingers and a flirty smirk. So he grins, and he walks over. And for the first time this doesn’t seem like something huge and terrifying; maybe he’s nearing the summit and after all this time Mount Everest was just another mountain.

The radio sings on, "_ Now you hold me, And we're broken, Still its all that I want to do, Feel myself with a head made of the ground, I'm scared but I'm not coming down, And I won't run for my life… _"

***

_ November 2017 _

_ He stands there watching the fire for a while; numb and shocked and broken. Then he feels himself catch fire. Rage. This is something he can understand, something he can work with. Something he’s more familiar with than the crushing emptiness. He heads back to his room like a roll of thunder and starts tossing clothes and his phone charger and as many of his things as he can stomach to take with him into a bag. Foolish nonsensical things, sentimental for a time before all of this, for a life he hasn’t lived in a long time. _

_ He walks out the door without a word. _

_ It’s cold but he hardly feels it. He stops at a gas station and picks up a pack of smokes and he’s halfway through it before he makes it to Ned’s place. He knocks on the door and it sounds heavy and hollow. His heart thuds against his ribs, and it sounds heavy and hollow. He smokes on the porch while he waits for someone to answer. _

_ Ned opens the door and lights up, but only for a second before he sees the expression on Shane’s face. “You alright dude?” he asks, and Shane shrugs. Then Ned must see the bag on his shoulder, because he frowns and says, “you taking off again?” Shane shrugs again. _

_ “My dad… whatever. I can’t live with him. He’s such a fucking…” he trails off, and Ned pulls him in and shuts the door. He’s quiet while they walk back to his room but once there he turns around and waits for an explanation. “I’ve spent all this time working on those poems… I was ready to submit it, see if I could get published. And he just threw the whole thing into the fire. Like trash. I can’t… Ned I hate him. I need to get out of here. I hate this place, it’s been nothing but shit. Aside from you. I just…” _

_ Ned doesn’t answer but he pulls Shane into a crushing hug. After a while he says, “where are you gonna go?” and Shane shrugs. He has no plan. He has nothing. “Ok. Here’s the plan,” Ned says, grinning. It’s infectious and smile sprouts on Shane’s face like it’s spring. “I’ve got three weeks left. Then I graduate. Crash with me for a while, and when I’m done we can take off.” _

_ Shane holds him tighter, turns to press a kiss to his cheek. “We?” he asks and Ned laughs. _

_ “Of course motherfucker. You’re not taking off on me again, alright?” Ned answers. The anger discandies and leaves him feeling empty and numb again, but with something flickering inside. A pilot light. A ghost light on an empty stage. Love. He shivers against it, against the heat from Ned holding him in his room. He leans forward and kisses him again, on the lips, and Ned laughs into it, but he doesn’t pull away. _

_ The two of them together. It feels like hope. _

***  
_ December 2018 _

“Bonjour, Le Jazz Haus,” Ryan says into the mic, “we’re Hetero Reluctant, can you relate?” The crowd laughs and cheers. He has them in his hands like he always does. The xanax is flooding his blood and Shane feels warm and peaceful, basking in Ryan’s light. “We like to open things up with a cover, you down for that?” The crowd cheers; it’s not too big, and Shane sees people he vaguely recognizes from the house show, but the place is decently packed. Already their social media is gaining traction. At the moment he can’t find it in himself to worry about it. “Alright, alright. Sing along if you know it. This is _ Like a Stone _ .” On his cue Steven and Shane and Andrew start out, the throbbing beat and the guitars singing. Ryan takes a deep breath, tossing a glance over his shoulder and Shane. He winks, and then sings, “ _ On a cobweb afternoon…” _the crowd is into it, some of them singing along, but his voice is so strong he drowns them out. In the back of the room, sitting at the bar, Mika is watching on and grinning.

“_ In your house, I long to be, Room by room, Patiently… I’ll wait for you there, Like a stone, I’ll wait for you there, Alone… _”

They play through the song, and Shane closes his eyes and lets himself drift through the solo while Andrew’s beat thuds steadily like his heart. The whole time Ryan has the crowd enchanted, pulled in by his magnetism. His voices stretches into the key change at the end and he does it effortlessly, the smoke and gravel, the looseness from his jack and coke. It’s amazing.

The finish up the song and move through some of theirs, _ Imprint _ and _ Vapid _ and _ Sigh Fury _ well-oiled and smoothed out by now. They stumble through the song Ryan wrote a couple weeks ago, _ Gory Modesty _, but get it together by the end and the audience doesn’t seem to pick up on it. It’s a thrill. As long as he’s divorced from his anxiety Shane loves this, the warm lights and the eyes of the crowd on them; listening to Ryan. Only with the distance from his fear he recognizes how amazing this opportunity is.

It’s amazing. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt; a bigger high than coke, more relaxed than the xannys. He craves this more than anything before. In this moment, he loves it.

After the show the lot of them are packing up the instruments and Mika makes their way over. “Nice show, kids. You’re really something special,” they say. Ryan is grinning, a sheen of sweat across his face and chest, the tattoos on his arms stark black, his eyeliner smudged downward onto his cheeks.

“Thanks, boss,” Ryan says and Mika smiles, says, “listen, you might wanna hurry up and get out there. I recognized a couple faces in the crowd. People who have event spaces, other bar owners. You could make some connections.”

This is when Shane’s nerves come in, where he feels the most out of place: Praise. It rests rough against him, like a blanket of sandpaper. He gets his guitars put away and then downs his drink, the cool gin bitter like pine. Ned and him make eye contact and he holds up the empty glass, so Ned jerks his head back toward the bar and Shane nods. They steal away together.

“Hell of a show, Shane,” Ned says. Something in his voice seems off. Like he’s got a secret, like he’s up to something. Shane just shrugs and orders their drinks. They lean against the bar together and Shane watches Ryan talking excitedly with a couple of guys, then turn to an older woman and become a calm professional in an instant. He was made for this. “What are you thinking about, dude?” Ned asks as their drinks thump onto the bar behind them. “Where are you?”

Shane looks over, meets Ned’s eye. “Just nerves,” he says, shrugging. Ned frowns.

“Tell me the truth,” he says. Shane hears from his voice that the secret he was holding isn’t his own; his hands scarlet; Ned knows the truth, but wants him to say it.

“Xannys,” Shane whispers, leaning in close to his ear, “just one, just before shows. It’s nerves, man, it is. I’m not used to it yet so I get freaked out. Just stage fright.” Ned doesn’t say anything, just reaches a hand over to grab Shane’s arm by his elbow and hold it, keep him close; a leash or an anchor.

He only says one word to him the rest of the night. Small and spooked like a child, breathless. “Shane.”

***

_ December 2017 _

_ The plane lands and the two of them are flat broke but the sun is bright and Shane can’t fight the smile on his face. They’re together. They’re in California. And it all seems so huge and amazing in front of him that all he can do outside the airport, waiting on the taxi, is stare up at the bright blue sky and grin. He’s back, he’s home, he’s somewhere new. _

***

_ December 2018 _

After a couple weeks of performing at The Jazz, their social media blows up. He’s sitting at home, relaxing, doing his best to not think about the holidays. Ryan went home, something Eugene assures him is unprecedented, for Christmas. The thought of him there though, miles away and with his mom and dad and his brother, has him mired in melancholy. But around him his friends are excitedly talking numbers and views and setting up a youtube channel and all sorts of other things; a gale of numbers blowing straight past him while he stays chained to the couch. Eugene is lying across the length of it, his head in Shane’s lap and Shane’s fingers running through his pale, icy blue hair idly while he reads a book. 

“Where’ve you been lately, Shaney?” Eugene asks. It startles him out of his thoughts. “It’s like you’re always a million miles away.” His hand stills in the man’s hair, and he tilts his head to look up from the book and at Shane. He doesn’t know what to say. This is all becoming too familiar. He shrugs. “Just thinking, I guess,” he answers. It’s not satisfying. He doesn’t want to say that he isn’t a million miles away, but just over two thousand. Illinois. A year in the past and two thousand miles east.

Zach walks over and Eugene shifts his feet out of the way so he can sit down, but then immediately stretches his legs back out to lay them in his lap. “Ryan will be back before New Years, right?” Zach asks. Eugene hums and nods. “Good. Y’all have an offer to perform at a club that night. And you’re already flooded with requests through January. Shane, you wanna text Ryan and ask him what he thinks?”

It feels like he’s outside, buffeted by the wind and under a wash of rain, eyes closed and at the mercy of the weather. He read once that poets always take the weather personally, but to him it feels much the opposite. He takes everything else so personally that the only place enormous enough for him to draw comparisons from is the sky.

“Hello? Shane?” Zach says. It draws him out of the maelstrom. The ground underneath him feels foreign and unsteady. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. He stands up, Eugene shifting automatically to lay his head at the other end of the couch, in Zach’s lap instead, and he makes his way toward the bathroom on legs that feel numb.

He shuts the door and locks it, sliding down to sit roughly on the floor. He’s dizzy with it, flushed and dizzy and out of control. He takes a few minutes to shake before he reaches over toward his hiding spot and grabs the bottle. One left, a sad noise at the bottom of the plastic. He looks down into it, eyes on the last pill, and it feels like looking into a mausoleum. He swallows it.

He texts Ryan, and then sets his phone on the floor and leans his head down into his hands and cries.

***

Things spiral just before Christmas. He tries to go without and put it past him, but every time he thinks about how this is happening, how everything is lining up and going so well, he panics. It’s shutting him down, he can feel himself slipping into his lowest point and he can feel Ned’s eyes on him always.

He needs to get out of the house, and Eugene can obviously tell that he’s restless, because he approaches him one night, big heavy bag slung over his shoulder, “hey Shaney, could I maybe get a favour from you?” he asks.  
  
Shane looks up from his phone as Eugene approaches him, “sure.”  
  
So they find themselves heading toward Flux, the chill of the air biting at Shane’s spine, permeating through the warm jacket he wears as he climbs into the car, Eugene opening the passenger side and getting in.

It’s mostly quiet until Eugene speaks up, says, “you know Shane, you’ve been on stage so much lately. Maybe you should stick around and see how a professional does it. Watch someone else perform for once.” It’s teasing, gently, and it makes him chuckle. He agrees, anything to keep him out of the house and away from his thoughts. “You’ve been tense. Have a couple drinks, let some fabulous people in fabulous outfits hit on you, and watch me earn my keep.”

Shane grips the steering wheel a little tighter at the comment, but his voice is even as he replies, “maybe you’re right. Show me how it’s done, Eugene.”

He parks and they step out, heading for the door. Eugene gets waved in past the line and he grabs Shane’s arm, dragging him with. The bar is packed, and all of the people have him feeling restless so he orders a drink at the bar while Eugene disappears into the back. Then there’s nothing to do but find a chair and wait for the show.

Eugene opens, obviously one of the star performers. The emcee introduces him as Cheyenne Pepper and the droning beat of his music is a welcome distraction from the people around him. It’s a sexy song, an odd choice for a holiday themed show, but somehow Eugene can pull it off. Long legs, long dark hair. It’s a hell of a look from the shining black fetish boots to the blood red corset, not much in between. He watches the crowd just as much as Eugene, and they’re eating out of the palm of his hand, holding up ones and fives and, in one case, a twenty which earns them what amounts to a lapdance and a kiss on the cheek. His dancing is impressive, his acrobatics and jumps and splits. When he breaks in the middle to vogue the crowd is screaming.

After his number he leaves the stage, carrying a handful of bills and Shane heads out front to smoke.

“Hey,” he hears from his right, and he turns his head against the brick wall and sees one of the other performers, a sweet smelling clove cigarette burning in their lips. The filter is stained bright pink. “You’re in that band, aren’t you? Hetero Reluctant?” He doesn’t answer but they grin and walk over. “Yeah I totally saw you at that house show at James’ place. You guys rock.”

“Thanks,” he says around his cigarette. “We’re, uh, we’re performing at Le Jazz Haus pretty regularly. And I think we’re at White Light this New Year.” The performer holds out a hand and he shakes it. “I’m Shane.”

“Nice to meet you Shane, I’m Mal. Mal Content,” she says, giving a small curtsy and then taking another long drag from her clove. The sweet smoke billows out her nose. She snuffs out the butt under the heel of her shoe and then digs around in her bag for a second. She pulls out an orange plastic bottle and Shane can recognize the telltale rattle of pills. She pops it open and before she swallows one Shane can recognize the long shape of the xanny bars. He notices her eyes too late, she clearly saw his attention on the pills, and she dumps one out into her hand and holds it out. “I take them for stage fright,” she says, laughing.

“Yeah, I get that. I kind of… yeah I get it,” he answers. He takes the pill. She gives him a long, searching look and then holds her phone out wordlessly. He isn’t sure what to do until he puts everything together, and then he gives her his number.

“You call me if you ever need to get through some shows,” she says, and he nods. She doesn’t even get two steps away before he stops her. “Can I uh… could I get some of those from you?” he asks. Nerves in every bit of his posture, nerves in his voice. He hates this, hates himself when he’s like this. She hands him the bottle and winks, slips the cash he hands her into her pocket, and then walks back into the bar.

He lights another cigarette, and when he’s done he heads back in to watch the rest of the show. Eugene was first and last, and Mal somewhere in the middle.

***

The bar is nice; the stage is nice and sturdy and an actual stage. He’s backstage in the bathroom and he’s nervous enough that his shot is still standing guard untouched on the sink. The mirror is cool against his forehead where it’s pressed against the ghost of itself. One of his hands is palm to palm with its image. He sighs heavily, and then stands up straight. He has dark shadows under his eyes. The fluorescent bulbs make his skin look sallow. He’s lost weight. He can feel his panic smothering, can feel his bones settle down and his gut stop quivering. 

He downs the gin and walks out the door into the green room. Andrew and Steven are talking by the alley door, Steven’s hands braced along Andrew’s jaw and his face bright and jovial. His energy is infectious. He turns from them and sees Ryan sitting still like he’s cast in marble. His eyes are on the pair as well, and the angle of his shy, private smile is something that Shane wishes he had memorialized; that it actually was cast in marble for all time. It should be.

Ryan looks over and his smile widens, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. Shane walks over because he has to, because he wants to, because can feel the magnetic draw of him every second. He sits next to him, and Ryan leans into him immediately. “You excited?” Shane asks, and Ryan nods before looking up at him and leaning up to press their lips together.

“This is… a nice place,” Ryan answers. It suddenly strikes Shane that he’s nervous too. That they all are. He feels foolish, and selfish; he hasn’t been paying enough attention to everyone else while he’s been busy wallowing in his own discomfort. “We’re gonna kill it,” Shane says, and Ryan grins. 

“Five minutes,” says a voice outside the door, one of the employees. Andrew lets out a low whistle as they walk over.

“You boys ready for this?” Andrew asks, and Ryan nods while he stands up. He takes a sip from his whiskey and then nods again. Steven is still grinning wildly, his energy manic more than nervous, and it’s getting him hyped.

They head out on stage and the crowd is much bigger than he expected, but they’re cheering and screaming, just silhouettes against the lights. “Wow, thanks for that,” Ryan chuckles as he gets up to the mic. “I dunno how all of you beautiful creatures identify, but we’re all a little Hetero Reluctant up here.” The intros always surprise him, shock a laugh from him while the audience reacts. “We’ve made a bit of a habit of starting up with covers, so feel free to sing along… this is _ Don’t Mess With Me _.”

The song is heavy and Ryan gets into it, gives it all the swagger and power that Brody Dalle deserves. Some of the crowd is shouting the lyrics, and Shane is right there with them, singing along the whole time.

It’s not until they get halfway through _ Sigh Fury _ that he realizes that some of the crowd is singing along with their music too, and that’s when his gut drops to sit heavy like a brick on stage. This feels real, in a way it hasn’t until now, and the blade of it cuts straight through all the ease he’s felt so far. But he’s here, and he doesn’t miss a note, and his eyes are on Ryan.

They move into Ryan’s song, _ Gory Modesty _, and his voice is stronger. He pauses after the first verse to reach offstage real quick and come back with his glass of whiskey, takes a long sip and laughs to the crowd. “Sorry, Brody Dalle always does a number on my voice.” He picks right back up, though, and doesn’t miss a beat.

“_ To shape this brazen image, And carve myself like stone, To rip out all the wrong bits, And make it feel like home. Scars that shine like silver, This pain white hot like fire, I’m running like a river, Towards my true desire… _:”

Shane plays along, keeps up with the energy as best he can, but he seems to lack Ryan’s ability to put on a brave face; he’s never liked masks. This song, it’s so clearly personal to Ryan, and when he sings his own words there’s this energy about him that seems to glow.

They play on and Ryan moves across the stage and sings his heart out and it’s fascinating to Shane, how he can go from scared shitless to natural and put together so quick. They flow straight into _ Singularity Point _ and Ryan takes another sip before he sings, “ _ Seasons change and time will pass, The leaves, they shift their hue, Running to escape my past, It lead me right to you. _ ” Shane gets ready to provide backup, moves forward toward the mic, and Ryan looks back continuing, “ _ And now I feel the chill, it frosts the air, _ ” and Shane sings, " _ calling out to me… _”

“_ The pressure's returning, pulling me inward, _ ” Ryan sings, and Shane comes in, “ _ like a singularity, _ ” and then the chorus is all Ryan. “ _ Oh summer, Oh summer, Hold on to that summer…” _

And the audience echoes him, and it’s like they’re screaming right at Shane.

“This is our self titled track, because all the cool bands have one, right?” Ryan says, in between drinks and laughter. “Lemme hear it for Andrew Ilnyckyj on drums, huh?” he says and the crowd cheers. Andrew does a fancy drum roll in response. “Steven Lim, shredding on the bass,” he says and the crowd cheers. Steven runs through a couple licks, a bit of the bassline from their next song. “And of course, the incomparable Shane Madej over there backing me up and murdering the guitar,” he says and the crowd goes wild. It has him floored, surprised enough that he doesn’t even play anything, just says, “holy shit,” and basks in the laughter that follows.

“And I’m your host, Ryan Bergara,” he says. The crowd is just as loud, just as fervent, but Shane thinks they should be tearing the walls down for Ryan. “We are Hetero Reluctant, and this song is Hetero Reluctant. How’s that for redundant?”

_“What I am, the world does not see, The truth is that I’m miss matched, Fallen from the tree, I clawed to get to where I am, But somehow you see me…_ _All my life I had to fight, Miss matched and misshapen, I’m not right, Parents try to set me straight, I don’t want that life, But somehow you see me…” _

The crowd is going wild as Ryan’s voice carries through the bar, everyone on their feet clapping and cheering. Steven riffs through a solo as the chorus starts, Ryan’s voice crisp and clear. He turns his gaze to Shane as he sings, _ “Let him love you, Be his girl, Baby that’s not my world. I’m hetero reluctant…” _ as Shane sings, _ “That’s not me,” _ then Ryan, _ “Don’t call me a ‘she’” _

Ryan’s on fire tonight, his smile as bright as the lights that beat down upon them and Shane can’t help but smile back, the melody of his guitar melting and melding perfectly with Ryan’s voice. The deep bass from Steven and the steady thud of Andrew accompany him as it mixes into this ethereal sound. This song is theirs; their anthem, from Ryan’s point of view. A band of misfits that don’t really fit in in the world but who somehow found each other and a place to call home. There’s a little bit of each of them in this song and it strikes Shane how crazy this whole ordeal is when he looks out into the sea of people cheering and realizes that they came just for them. For this silly band they started on a whim only months ago. The summer. And here they are on the cusp of a new year.

_ “I felt alone for so long in this fight… Parents told me it’s not right, I refuse to stand down, to pretend” _ Shane sings as Ryan answers, _ “I know who I am...” _ then together, harmonies resonant, “ _ Slowly they’re all starting to see… And it’s you who sees me…” _

The crowd is now singing the chorus with them; a quick study. Shane’s fingers move automatically across the strings of his guitar, and as Ryan turns back to him he fumbles a couple chords but gets back on track in time for the final chorus, the key change, the two of them singing together.

_ “Let him love you, Be his man, Baby that’s my truth, I’m hetero reluctant, (Yeah, that’s me) _ _ Don’t call me a ‘she...’ _ _ Let him love you, Be his man, Baby that’s my plan, I’m hetero reluctant, (proud and true), Baby how ‘bout you?” _ As the song ends Ryan crosses the stage and pulls Shane forward, leaning up over his guitar awkwardly to kiss him soundly; the crowd screams; his lips taste sweet like honey whiskey; Shane’s face flushes, but he kisses back. They’ve got one more song, they’re almost home free. He can almost fall into bed with his boyfriend and try to focus on all of the beauty in this night. Soon, soon. Until then, they have a show to do.

“Alright, all you creatures out there. This is our last song, but we’re gonna really go for it, okay? So stand up, you beautiful crowd and let me hear you scream out loud!”

Andrew sets in a blistering pace; Steven’s bass is volatile, a series of notes that Shane can hardly follow. He strums twice and then starts his own part. Ryan opens his mouth, but pauses. He takes another drink of whiskey, while they all repeat the last measure on instinct, and then he sings, “_ I’m missing you, I’m missing you, I’m missing you… _” while Shane echoes him.

“_ Don’t leave me here in snowfall, Don’t leave me here to rot. I’m wrapped inside of your thrall, Call it something it’s not… I’m lost and I am missing, The mirror’s fogging up, Which reaper am I kissing, The strings I’ll have to cut…” _

Shane joins him on the chorus, their voices meeting up and Ryan glances back at him, but then keeps his eyes trained on the crowd. His face a wild grin. Shane’s eyes are tethered to Ryan. 

“_ Don’t let me fall from grace yet, Hold me in your embrace, Crawling toward the Baphomet, Just give me a taste. _

_ "Wrong words wrong time, I’m lost inside your eyes, Wrong place wrong face, Fatal verdict full of lies, Wrong words wrong time, But I can’t apologize, Wrong place wrong face, Bury this inside!” _

He’s moving across the stage like a wraith; gliding across the floor and jumping around, his passion is overwhelming. He’s a storm. A hurricane. Ball lightning hovering in the air.

“_ Fog rolling on my window, Smoke inside my chest, Are we moving too slow?, Have we arrived yet?, The fear I bury deep inside, The mask that I put on, Hundred reasons to be crucified, Burning in the dawn… _”

Shane almost tunes out, almost forgets that he’s part of the show and not in the audience, but he plays his part on his shiny new electric and he feels the thudding noise of everything and it’s like chasing down a tornado; like running straight toward disaster. It’s like wild horses. Everything, everything.

The song ends and Ryan takes a bow that nearly topples him. The crowd is wild. They want an encore. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before. “Happy fucking new year! Thank you, all you beautiful people. You’ve been a wild crowd. And White Light has been so gracious to us. This isn’t the last time, this isn’t the last place; you’re gonna carry the weight of this around, and we’ll see you again when you finally want to put it down,” he says, and it’s nonsense. It’s wild. The whiskey is getting to him but the crowd loves it. “We are Hetero Reluctant,” Ryan shouts, and the crowd yells, “HOW ‘BOUT YOU!”

If the stage was a hurricane, the greenroom is the eye. Everything stills as soon as they step in, and then they lose it, hugging and yelling and jumping up and down. 

Ned finds him smoking in the alley after the show. He doesn’t speak at first, just holds out two fingers so Shane hands him a cigarette. They lean back against the cool brick. It’s starting to rain and it’s well past midnight. January. A new year. A fresh start.

“How are you?” he says eventually. Shane has grown tired of that question; he never knows what he’s supposed to say. He doesn’t answer.

“Shane,” he says, “I remember how you looked in Illinois, before… before. And that dude is a stranger to me now, but you’re starting to look like him again. Tell me you’re not… fuck.” He takes another drag of the cigarette. “Are you using all the time?”

They both take drags of their cigarettes; Ned hesitantly and his posture rigid, Shane angrily slumped back against the brick; both of them terrified. He can’t lie as much as he wishes he could. “Yeah, but just-”

“Just nothing. Shane.” It’s scary, the tone that Ned uses when he says his name. It’s something Shane had only ever heard once before, right before rehab. It’s like an alarm, a siren, a diving bell. “This isn’t ‘just’ anything anymore. You’ve got to know that. You’ve got to come clean. Fuck, you’ve gotta get clean. I can’t cover, I can’t keep telling everyone else you’re just tired or have stage fright or whatever. I can’t and I won’t. Tell Ryan…”

“Ned please,” he answers. The sound of the rainfall nearly drowns him out. “I’ll… I will.”

“Shane, my dude… You need to get your head on straight and take a look at things. I know that you are scared and shit went down and I **know** you know that this isn’t good. You need to tell Ryan. Don't shut him out man. He loves you. That’s powerful. Don't do this alone. You can’t. No one can.”

Shane just sits with it, lets the words soak in. He knows that Ned is right. Still, the terror has its claws in his heart and it skitters up and down his spine. The thoughts just slip insidious into his mind. “I’m not alone…” he says eventually. “I’ve got you, right?” he asks. It’s plaintive, a wail in the night. Ned doesn’t answer until he drops his cigarette and stomps it out.

“You always have. But if you don’t get your shit together, I dunno man. I can’t do this forever. I can’t watch you… That guy I said goodbye to, who flew off to Cali? I don’t want to know him.”

***

_ January 2019 _

“Wake up boys!” TJ shouts from outside the door. Ryan stirs in his arms. Shane was awake already, but decided to lie in bed as long as possible. As Ryan sits up, though, Shane must give up the ghost. Ryan turns to him and smiles slowly like the sunrise. He leans in and they kiss a while before TJ shouts again, “wake the **fuck** up y’all! We’ve got press!” That gets a reaction, as in the next room over he can hear Andrew and Steven falling out of bed and chatting while they get dressed. Ryan and him move slower, bask in the morning a bit and kiss again and then finally climb out of bed and make their way out to the living room.

TJ is standing in front of the TV like he’s holding court

“Listen to this,” he says, and then reads from Bassline.

“**A UNIQUE FOURSOME TAKES CALIFORNIA BY STORM:**

“By now everyone is talking about the newest act making waves along the West Coast, the four boys of _ Hetero Reluctant _ have a lot to prove and the talent to back it up. With Cali native Ryan Bergara taking center stage as the frontman of this post-punk outfit, there’s a clear future on the horizon. He sings like he means it, because he does. Everything they do is honest, and every lyric feels like a line from his journal being read out loud. As they begin to leave house shows behind, his skill only increases and his ease with the crowd is infectious. As he opens every show with a joke about their name he invites the crowd to join them on the adventure. Andrew Ilnykyj, originally from New Jersey, shines even from the back with his natural ease on the drums and 'James Dean' rebel attitude while Steven Lim carries many of the songs with his heavy basslines and quick improv, and an infectious smile on through the whole thing. It’s clear they love what they’re doing, and the fans love to watch it.

“Undoubtedly the backbone is lead guitarist and occasional singer Shane Madej, an Illinois transplant whose introspective lyrics add a flare for the dramatic and pull from references as disparate as classic mythology and new-school horror. Even from the back of the crowd, this reviewer could see how much this means to him and, in fact, to all of them. But something about the stony reserve of Madej’s on-stage stillness is intriguing. With rumors swirling of possible romance within the band, Madej’s eyes being trained on Bergara the whole show do nothing to dispute the potential but everything to intrigue us further.

“Reluctant, we are not. There is little doubt that some time soon, we’re going to be hearing songs like _ Singularity Point _ and _ Fatal Verdict _ on the radio, and from there _ Hetero Reluctant _ is poised to take over the charts.”

“Holy shit,” Steven says. Andrew whistles. “Bassline? We’re a featured article in fucking Bassline?” Ryan questions.

“Bassline’s ‘Rising Stars’, no less. Listed as the number one act to watch on the West Coast. We’ve got offers for performances all over the fucking country from this, boys. Facebook is blowing up. We haven’t even filmed anything for YouTube and we’ve got twenty thousand subscribers off the name alone. This is real!”

Everyone is excited. Shane, even, gets swept up in it. He can’t help it, seeing Ryan grinning his face becomes a mirror. It is exciting; he just wishes he weren’t going to screw it all up.

He swallows it, though, because the joy and energy is overwhelming. They sit down for coffee and in the other room Shane can hear TJ’s phone dinging constantly with notifications. “Holy shit!” Zach says, coming down the hall, “someone filmed you guys last night and put it up on youtube. The video is viral, we even have a twitter hashtag. We’ve gone fucking viral! “ He holds out his phone to show them, and all the while TJ’s phone keeps going off. More than a million views already, and steadily climbing if the constant stream of attention to their social media is any indication. **Anyone heard of this band?** the title says. Until yesterday, the answer was no.

“Man, listen to my phone,” TJ remarks. “How are we gonna keep up with this?”

Shane sets his coffee down and heads back toward Ryan’s room. TJ’s phone gets louder until he steps inside and shuts the door, drowning it out. He grabs his own phone, tugging it off the charger and checking it. Five missed calls, fifteen missed texts, and a time that surprises him into motion back down the hall. “We’re late,” he says, and Ryan looks up confused until realization dawns on him. “Fuck, we’ve gotta work today! Shit!”

By the time Shane and Ryan get to work, word has spread. Mika meets them at the door and pulls them back into the office. “Listen, kids,” they say, clearly ignoring the fact that they are fifteen minutes late. They gesture to their laptop, where the article in Bassline is pulled up. “This is a big deal. Publication like that… it’s going to draw a lot of attention.” Ryan nods and says it already has. 

The smile on Mika’s face is knowing, “That’s what I thought.” they say, “How are you fielding gigs? Who’ve you got on social media?”

Shane tells them. “We have a couple friends looking after the facebook and instagram, but it’s all blown up so fast.” Ryan says, “someone recorded last night’s show and uploaded it to Youtube. Between that and the article it’s constant...” It seems like this is a business meeting for the wrong business.

“Alright, I’m gonna be honest here kids. Fuck this job. You’re not fired but, geez, this is a real opportunity. Focus on this,” Mika says, surprising them both.

“I don’t know, Mika,” Ryan says, “I mean, we can’t exactly hire a manager or run this ourselves.” Mika grins. 

“Who said you had to hire anyone? Believe it or not, I have experience managing people,” they give the two of them a look, “I just want to see you kids succeed. You have real talent and this is a chance many people would kill for. I’m familiar with the music scene around here. I know a lot of people who manage event spaces and often go out to these places myself, if you recall.”  
  
Ryan is looking at them, his eyes bright. Shane feels a twist in his gut. This is all happening so fast. It seemed like only yesterday they were just doing this all for fun, and it’s snowballed into something much bigger than the both of them and that scares him. Hell, snowballed? This is an avalanche.  
  
“I know this may seem sudden, but let me tell you. As an ancient creature among the West Coast punk scene, you boys have got more than enough guts and talent to take this far. It isn't every day that a band gets mentioned in Bassline, much less before even releasing a debut. Don't let this opportunity pass you by."

When the speech is over and Ryan is talking excitedly with Mika about potential, Shane excuses himself to the bathroom. His hands are shaking. He’s still holding his backpack, never even got a chance to drop it in the back. His mind is racing as the news from the morning cycles around in his head. It’s all going too fast. It’s that roller coaster again, rushing ever forward, and he’s strapped in and can’t get out. Barreling towards something that he feels like he can’t control. Won’t slow down. Can’t slow down. He feels his heart pounding in his chest as he gulps air into his lungs but he can’t breathe. Suddenly, the room is spinning. He leans against the wall, sliding to the floor, vertigo pulling at him. He can’t breathe. He needs something, anything to make it stop. As his bag hits the floor he hears a rattle. He looks down but all he can see is a distant drop and icy water below.

The thought of Mika shifting gears and their job changing suddenly. They’re going to be focusing on the band and managing everyone. It’s becoming real way too fast. He knows he’s going to fuck everything up, and now it’s bled into his work. He doesn’t want to disappoint everyone. He doesn’t want to disappoint Ryan. The panic continues to surge through him as Shane takes another deep breath. He reaches for his bag and digs out the bottle, popping the cap. He needs to calm down. The muffled sound of Ryan and Mika’s voice can be heard behind the door as Shane pops two bars of xanax and swallows them dry. The memory of Ned talking to him floods his mind.

_That guy I said goodbye to, who flew off to Cali? I don’t want to know him.’ _

Guilt. He can’t handle this.  
  
He takes another couple breaths before standing up and looking hard at himself in the mirror. His face is sullen, his eyes haunted as once more the thoughts float through his mind, residual panic thrumming through his veins from the breakdown. They’re viral. On their way to fame. Mika is right; This is an amazing opportunity. Shane turns his head to the floor and looks at the pill bottle sitting on the ground where he was slumped, cap laying face up next to it.  
  
He can’t let his anxiety fuck this up. This is too important for him to only care about himself.  
  
_ I’m sorry, Ned, _ he thinks.  
  
He bends over and picks up the bottle, snapping the cap back on. He needs this. He places the xanax back into the hidden pocket in his pack and takes another breath before leaving the bathroom.  
  
It’ll be ok.  
  
He makes his way back out into the bar and he does the things he’s supposed to do and the whole time he waits for the numbness to set in.

“-and we could be recording soon. Imagine that, us in a studio. An actual album. Shane? Are you listening?”

He snaps out of it, looking over to where Ryan is leaned against the bar. He’s fuzzy, blurred at the edges, and his voice is distant. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry.” Ryan looks unconvinced. Ryan looks concerned.

“Shane…” he starts, but pauses. Long enough that Shane’s mind untethers and drifts away again. Even through the haze of the xanax he can recognize his fear. “Come with me,” Ryan says, grabbing his hand and leading him out back. Shane lights a cigarette, a reflex. “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” he says, “tell me where you keep going.”

Shane doesn’t know. It’s another one of those questions he keeps being asked and he doesn’t know how to answer. He hates feeling like this, like he’s wrapped in ropes.

“Sorry. I’m just... “ the word ‘nervous' dies on his tongue. ‘Anxious’ and ‘nervous’ and ‘it’s nothing’ all dissipate before he can articulate any of them.

“Do you not want this?” Ryan asks. His voice sounds so small; distant, like the barest hint of an echo. “Do you… If this isn’t what you want, you need to let us know dude. Just tell me… is it…”

He seems so unsure. It’s odd; Ryan has never seemed small, never seems afraid, he’s the brave one here. “You’ve... You’ve been so distant lately and like..” Ryan looks away, his head downturned. He suddenly looks up, eyes shining with unshed tears, “is it me? Do you even want me anymore?” It shocks a noise from Shane, something like a gasp.

“Ryan of course I… what are you even talking about?”

“You’re always a million miles away. It’s like you don’t care about the band at all. But this… we started this together. We wrote this album together. We wouldn’t be here without you. **I** wouldn’t be here without you. Is it us?”

A single, eyeliner-stained tear rolls down the plane of Ryan’s cheek. Shane reaches out, to wipe it away before it reaches his chin, but Ryan pulls back. The tear drops to the pavement. It’s raining again.

“Ryan.” It’s the only thing he can say, and it’s heavy with emotion. He wants desperately to come clean, to _ get _ clean, to ** _ be_ ** clean. He wants to just tell him what’s going on. But Ned’s face, the anger and fear, it holds him paralyzed. The only person who knows the truth is growing to hate him for it. Someone who Shane had never even considered could possibly resent him is pulling away, and now Ryan is standing on the precipice. He looks down and sees icy water. He looks up and sees dark, salty water rolling down his boyfriend’s cheeks. He looks up and sees fresh water dripping from the heavy clouds. He feels like he’s drowning.

Ryan goes back inside, and Shane finishes his cigarette alone in the rain.

***

They have a show to do. Shane is already high on the ride to The Jazz. He’s shaking apart in the back seat while TJ drives them over. Guilt, fear, things he wishes he could put down and leave behind while they cling stubbornly to him like the smell of smoke on his jacket.

There’s a huge crowd outside. It looks packed. Even the music store half is full up and people are lined along the sidewalk outside. There’s a girl waiting by the back door who has a drawing, done of a still from their performance video, and she begs them to sign it. Ryan talks to her for minutes on end after he does, but Shane just writes his name and hides in the bathroom. He’s getting sick of bathrooms, of the stark white porcelain and the smell of bleach and especially of mirrors. His face in mirrors has been making him sick lately; bruised eyes and bruised ego, sunken cheeks, he’s in the grips of it again and it’s awful.

The stage feels familiar; a bit like home. This is where it all really started, like the house show was a practice but this is where they became a band.

“Hello, Le Jazz Haus!” Ryan shouts into the mic. He’s still almost swallowed up by the wall of noise from the fans. “We’re Hetero Reluctant,” he says, and before he can crack his usual joke the audience answers, “how ‘bout you?!” It’s bizarre. It’s wrapped around his neck like a noose. It’s slung over his shoulder like the strap of his guitar.

“How many of you have seen us play before?” he asks and most of the crowd goes wild. “Nice nice, it’s lovely to see you again. And how many are here for the first time?” the rest of the crowd screams. “Well, then. Welcome to the party! I’m guessing you’ve caught on to our MO by now. We’re gonna open with a cover. This is _ Semi Charmed Life _,” he says, and the music starts up behind him.

The drums from Andrew tap a couple times before they break into their usual cadence. Both Steven and Shane begin to riff the opening notes in perfect sync, the calm washing through him as the harmonies he sings blend well with the crispness of Ryan’s voice.

_ “Do do do, Do do dooo dooo, Do do do, Do do dooo dooo, Do do do, Do do dooo dooo, Do do do…” _ _  
_

Ryan comes in with the first verse and the crowd is going nuts. Some of them are already singing along with him as he belts out the words, a smile as bright as the lights that shine upon them, _ “I'm packed and I'm holding, I'm smiling, she's living, she's golden, she lives for me… says she lives for me; Ovation… Her own motivation, she comes ‘round and she goes down on me.” _ _  
_

Ryan’s smiling, dancing a little on stage to the tune and the crowd is just eating it up. Shane’s fingers run through the chords mindlessly as he watches him, the lights shining down and he looks untouchable. The next words he sings echo in the back of his mind and there’s an irony in them that doesn’t go unnoticed by Shane as his boyfriend sings.

_ “And I make her smile, like a drug for you! Do whatever you want to do, Coming over you. Keep on smiling, what we go through. One stop to the rhythm that divides you.” _ _  
_

Ryan glances a look to Shane, his smile still there but there’s something in his eyes that seems guarded as he looks back at the crowd singing, _ “And I speak to you like the chorus to the verse... Chop another line like a coda with a curse, Come on like a freak show takes the stage, We give them the games we play, she said,” _

Shane picks up the chorus with him, their voices melding together well, even when not in harmony. It almost hurts to sing, wondering if Ryan’s song choice for a cover had a hidden meaning behind it. He tries not to focus on that, singing his part instead; the crowd echoing the same, _“I want something else… To get me through this… Semi-charmed kind of life… Baby! Baby, I want something else...I'm not listening when you say… Good-bye…”_

As Shane picks up the harmonies for the bridge of the song, his mind is beginning to wander. Ryan runs through most of the next verse and it feels like he’s been found out. Shane does his best not to think about the song and the possible reasons for it, riffing through the chords, the steady beat of Andrew’s drums behind him grounding him. Still the words Ryan sings cut him, the cheer of the crowd as they sing along making him feel numb, _ “The sky it was gold! It was rose; I was taking sips of it through my nose, And I wish I could get back there, Someplace back there, Smiling in the pictures you would take… Doing crystal meth will lift you up until you break! It won't stop…” _

The crowd sings along, everyone on their feet, some with phones in the air recording as Ryan’s voice carries through the bar and Shane feels numb. He wants to feel the energy but the edges of his mind are fuzzed. He feels like he’s outside himself as he plays, the strings beneath his fingertips barely registering. 

“_ I won't come down, I keep stock, With a tick-tock rhythm... a bump for the drop, And then I bumped up... I took the hit I was given, Then I bumped again! Then I bumped again… Said…” _ Ryan pauses, then turns his gaze to Shane, the next verse almost pleading as he sings, the wall that’s up coming down slightly, “ _ How do I get back there to the place where I fell asleep inside you? How do I get myself back to... The place where you said,” _

The chorus is up again and Shane starts to sing. He sounds hollow to his own ears, Ryan’s voice a hidden question that mirrors the one from their earlier conversation, _ “I want something else… To get me through this… Semi-charmed kind of life. Baby! Baby, I want something else... _ _ I'm not listening when you say...Good-bye…” _  
  
He closes his eyes as the music slows a little, his voice softer as he sings, “ _ I believe in the sand beneath my toes… The beach gives a feeling, an earthy feeling, I believe in the faith that grows… And the four right chords can make me cry…” _  
_  
_ Ryan opens his eyes, his gaze now back on Shane, “ _ When I'm with you I feel like I could die, _And that would be all right… All right...”

Shane’s gaze is trained back at Ryan, the crowd a mere haze in the background of whatever conversation they’re silently having and it hurts. He wishes he could tell Ryan. He wants to come clean. To _ be _ clean. But he also knows that he can’t do this without it. Like a grip wrapped around him, it’s jaws clenched tight. He smiles sadly as Ryan gets to the part where he sings, _ “Now you hold me… And we're broken… Still it’s all that I want to do! Feel myself with a head made of the ground -- I'm scared, but I'm not coming down… No no… And I won't run for my life… She's got her jaws just locked now in smile, But nothing is all right… All right… _

The music slows, quiet now and Ryan sings softly, sadly, _ “I want something else… to get me through this… Life… Baby, I want… something else. Not listening when you say... _ _  
_ _ Goodbye…. Goodbye.... Goodbye…..” _ Then higher, eyes closed, mic held close, loud and ringing, _ “GOODBYE!” _

As the song closes off with the same bridge as the opening, Shane’s harmonies seem quieter, his mind swirling around, the numbness setting in. The stage beneath his feet looks like water.

The rest of the set is a blur. He doesn’t even remember what they play; he thinks they end with _ Fatal Verdict _ again. He likes that song, but after that punch to the gut of the cover song, he spends the whole show in another world.

Backstage, Mika is grinning wildly and holding a thick stack of paper. They’re talking to a woman shane doesn't recognize. He knows automatically what it is; a contract, an offer. It's real and it's happening.

***

_ May 2019 _

“Hello out there, we are joined here in the Bassline studio by one of our _ Rising Star _ features from last winter, Hetero Reluctant,” the man says. He pauses long enough that Ryan leans in toward the mic and says, “hello,” hesitantly. It gets a laugh from the staff behind the scenes.

“Now, we hear you’ve been hard at work recording your debut. Is there anything you can tell us before the record drops?”

Ryan laughs. “Not too much, under strict orders from the label. I can say that it’s all the songs you’ve heard at our shows so far. Plus one called _ Hypothetical Trip _ that Shane wrote,” the interviewer hums, “that’s Shane Madej, the quiet guitarist in the corner, right?” and Ryan nods.

“We even have an instrumental that one of our friends wrote. Locals may know her as Cheyenne Pepper, drag legend and superstar. She was hard at work and sent us a really cool electronic track that suits it perfectly. We’re just doing some last minute touch ups.”

Andrew says, “it’s been a really cool experience. Working in the studio and with a producer and everything. We’ve really gotten a chance to perfect the songs.”

“Also,” Steven interrupts, “we just want to thank Bassline for that flattering write up after New Years. It really helped us gain attention and get our name out there,” but the interviewer waves him off. Shane is silent, nervous. He hates interviews.

“Now, we received some rough cuts before this interview. I wanted to ask about the lyrics,” he says. Shane winces. This is where he comes in, he knows it. “A lot of your music seems very personal, would you say that’s true?”

Ryan nods, “definitely. I think that’s true, in one way or another, for all bands. But with us… we’re just a group of friends, you know, who started messing around with instruments in a living room. We didn’t know anything else but to write about who we are, and where we are in life. Shane definitely wrote a majority of the lyrics and I was impressed right away with his talent.”

“Shane,” the guy says, “where does your inspiration come from? Had you ever written lyrics before?”

A heavy sigh. He leans forward over his guitar. “Not really, no. I was surprised that Ryan was impressed. My inspiration… I don’t really know. I was mostly thinking about…” he means to say ‘Ryan’ but instead he says, “love.” It’s the same thing, the same meaning. If their fanbase is anything to go by, if the social media and hashtags are a sign, everyone knows exactly what he means anyway. He leans back.

“Now, in keeping with tradition, Hetero Reluctant is going to perform two tracks from their upcoming debut. Before that, though, I want to ask, where did the album title come from?”

Ryan laughs. “Well, it’s actually part of the name of a logical fallacy. It’s Greek, “ergo propter hoc.” It translates to ‘therefore because of this,’ and I thought it really summed up the experience. We wouldn’t be here without the album. We wouldn’t really be together like this without it. Because of the album, we’ve been able to become closer and grow as people.”

“That’s so interesting. You’re here live with us on Bassline, and if you’re just tuning in the boys of everyone’s favourite unknown band, Hetero Reluctant, are going to grace us with a few songs from their upcoming debut album ‘ergo propter hoc’. Take it away...:”

***

He hates interviews. He hates doing them and he hates sitting in the green room after; the stony silence. His nervous fidgeting. It makes him want to use -- as if he isn’t already high just to get through it -- and it sucks the life from him. It’s exhausting. Mika is on the phone, chatting away with someone, likely their next press stop, and Ryan is across the room talking to one of the PAs from the Bassline staff. He has this skill, to talk to anyone and for it to be genuine. Even when he’s not on stage he’s magnetic.

Next to him, Steven says, “Holy shit, dude. We’re doing interviews. Isn’t this cool?” Shane looks over, and answers his grin with a smile.

“Yeah,” he says, the words thick in his throat, “it’s wild. I never thought this would happen…” he trails off, the xanax from this morning is wearing off, the smile on Steven’s face is slipping off.

Andrew looks over, his mouth a straight line. “You okay, Shane?” he asks. That same old question. 

The lie has become easier through the recording process, during the last few months of studios and meetings and press. “Yeah, yeah. Haven’t been sleeping well. Nerves, you know. This is wild. I never really thought about having to do interviews.”

As Steven opens his mouth to reply, Ryan approaches, beaming, “hey! Let’s grab dinner. To celebrate. We’re done with recording, right? Time to relax and let the producers do the work.”

“Yeah,” Shane says, thankful for the distraction. “Yeah, let’s get out of here. I’m starving.” He stands, hoping to move things along, and Ryan grins from next to him, leans into his space. Shane rests his arm across his shoulders. “We should let Mika know,” he says and Andrew heads off around the corner to find them. Shane leans down and presses a kiss to the crown of Ryan’s head while they walk, and it seems to brighten him even more. He’s been thriving, this whole time, thriving in the studio and in interviews and with fans. A blooming rose like the tattoos across his shoulder and arm. And all the while Shane feels like he’s wilting. Like it’s winter.

The restaurant is warm, stuffy even, considering the muggy spring they’ve had. He sheds his jacket and Ryan sits across from him, his eyes on the menu but glancing up every so often. 

He’s been like this a lot lately, Shane thinks. Bright eyes that could be pleading. Happy smiles that seem less genuine and laced with worry. Shane’s tired of everyone worrying about him.

“You good?” he asks.

Shane’s lips pull into a frown. Ryan seems to notice but he's confused. "I'm fine," Shane snaps and the other boys and Mika glance over at him. Ryan's face twists up, like he's confused about and figuring out several things at once. Like he's got all the pieces but they're to two different puzzles and he still needs to sort through.

"To order," he says quietly, slumping in his seat a bit and looking down at his menu again. "I mean are you ready to order."

Shane casts his eyes down to the menu he's hardly read. It's quiet until the waitress arrives , and he just gets a classic cheeseburger because the words were fogging up.

As she leaves, he stands to go smoke outside. Ryan follows him.

"Shane, what the hell? First of all, you're clearly not fine but I've been trying not to bring it up because you just evade," he pauses and Shane moves to speak but Ryan continues on on top of him, "I don't get it, dude. Why won't you talk to me? What is going on? I'm trying here, but… fuck. Feel free to join in at any time."

Shane looks up from the pavement. "Sorry. I'm just… this is all really stressful for me. I'm not as good at getting attention as the rest of you are."

Ryan softens, the fight bleeding from him. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "That wasn't so bad, right? I don't know why you won't just… tell me that." His frown is gone, though. Then he smiles and chuckles. "Well if you're getting tired of attention, maybe we should get off the stage for once." He pulls out two tickets, hands one to Shane. Earth, playing nearby tomorrow night. He remembers giving Ryan a ride home in the rain; Earth playing soft against the sound of it pouring on the windshield.

“Oh…” he says, a quiet noise. “Ryan, that’s… that’s perfect. You’re right. I’ve been silly. I’m sorry.” He’s touched; nearly brought to his knees. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and Ryan steps forward, pulling Shane close and holding him. “I love you,” he says, and Ryan pulls even closer, tucking his head against his chest. “And I’m sorry for making you worry.” He looks out at the parking lot, at the night sky, and distant glow of streetlights, and the heavy clouds rolling in.

His heart is pounding. He knows Ryan can hear it.

***

Something about concerts is still such a thrill. They’ve performed a hundred times at least, but the magic of lining up and bustling with the crowd and the _ noise of it _ just never changes. For the first day in months he has no fear. He’s sober and he’s in this moment and Ryan is there, tied together at their knuckles, drifting near and far but always so close. They were recognized; Ryan was recognized anyway and Shane a second later by extension. Ryan chatted with one girl for twenty minutes about writing _ Hetero Reluctant _ and how it wasn’t just about him, but all of them; and everyone else out there who feels different and left behind and shoved into boxes. Ahead of them, a guy turns and then doubletakes, gives Shane a shy smile. He returns it, wholeheartedly. He can’t wait.

The night feels huge around him; black sky and orange streetlights and the heavy, lambent moon; no clouds, a light breeze. It’s perfect. He tugs lightly at Ryan’s elbow and he tucks in close. “You stoked?” he asks and Shane grins, nods, means it.

“Love you,” he says. Shy and quiet, like maybe it’s a secret. Ryan smiles, looking up at him. “Love you too,” he answers.

They finally get into the venue and head toward the merch; in addition to occasional shifts at The Jazz, the gigs have been paid ever since New Years and it’s adding up quick. He’s never had expensive taste, tosses most of it in savings and tries not to think about his climbing balance, tries not to think about what to do with it. So they’ve got a bit of money to throw around and they can afford to be frivolous to support the acts. Earth. A band he’s never heard of opening, which he almost looks forward to in an odd way. He’s excited to see one of his favourites, of course, but the mystery of the opening act is always alluring.

And they’re good. Really good. After their set Shane heads back out and picks up their CD. He has plans to get it signed after the show when he runs into the bass player, a short woman with a shaved head and more tattoos than Shane or any of his friends. “Holy shit!” she exclaims, when she notices him. “You’re fucking Shane. From HR!” she seems excited until horror dawns on her face and she mumbles, “I can’t believe you just watched us play. Is the whole band here?!”

Shane chuckles. He points back into the arena and says, “just me and Ryan.” Her mouth drops open.

“Ryan fucking Bergara. Holy shit. I’ve gotta piss and then I’m gonna grab everyone else, okay? They are gonna flip! Don’t leave after Earth, alright? You two come around back.” He nods, and she beelines toward the bathrooms. He makes his way back to Ryan nonplussed, the hint of a smile toying at his face.

“What’s up?” Ryan asks and Shane chuckles.

“Opening act are fans of ours,” he says just as Earth take the stage. “Wanna meet us after the set.”

It starts and he feels it in his bones; it’s happening. It’s supermassive but nothing like a black hole; it’s a force against him like the wind, like swimming upstream. It’s so amazing he forgets to be anything other than alive.

***

The bus is smaller than he’d expected for such a big tour.

“Fourteen more stops, then straight to Europe for a headlining,” Xelle says, running her hand over her short buzzed head. Shane’s still growing his out, and it’s starting to curl up in places. She hands him the blunt and turns to the drummer, Rae, says, “fourteen right? That right?”

Rae grins. “Six down, fourteen to go,” she says. Ryan is chatting with Dorien about singing, and the two of them step out to share a cigarette. Xelle snuffs out the roach and reaches up to the necklace around her neck. She unscrews the pendant from the chain and holds it up to her nose, taking a short pointed sniff. She tips it toward Shane, and he holds up his hand at first, but his eyes glance to the door of the bus, and he didn’t take anything else today, and it’s such a fun time, such a great night. Why not? He does a bump and the blow hits him quick. A blush of numbness like a masquerade mask. He closes his eyes and grins while Rae leans in, and Xelle cheers. It’s back around her neck in an instant and Shane can help but laugh.

“What’s all the noise for?” Ryan says as they come back in. Shane reaches out toward him, doesn’t answer and just holds his hands out. When Ryan takes them, he tugs him down into his arms, and then they’re both laughing.

He pulls back enough to smile, soft and private, and watch as it sprouts on Ryan’s face too; the both of them alive in springtime. Xelle coos and takes a picture, and while the girls all look at it Ryan closes the distance pressing their lips together. Just quick, a flash. He’s made of light; ball lightning hovering hot and spontaneous in the air; he’s flickering like the lights of the show; like the projector in a theater. So much brighter than the ghost light Shane’s been reduced to lately; the lone bulb on the abandoned stage, company for the spirits, a beacon for the dead.

He shakes off the thought and kisses Ryan again. They’ll have to leave soon, let their new friends get on the road. Until then, they’re together, in the back of a bus that smells like weed and burnt sage, laughing until they gasp for breath. Alive, alive, alive.

***

He pauses in the parking lot, standing by the door. “You wanna go for a walk before we head home? Find somewhere to eat? I’m still…” he pauses.

“Hyped from that epic show?” Ryan supplies and Shane grins again. They walk hand-in-hand. The high is fading, and he wants more blow, but what he wants more than that is Ryan, here with him. Ryan in his arms, and Ryan’s lips, and his beautiful eyes.

They find a diner and Ryan steals away to the bathroom while Shane orders. He thinks about the night, about how amazing it’s been. He thinks about something Xelle had said, when they first met up and smoked cigarettes in the alley after the show.

_ “He loves you,” _ she’d said. “ _ I can see it in his eyes. _ ” He’d just smiled, and she laughed. _ “You’re really lucky, Shane. _”

She’s right. As he looks out the window, and sees Ryan coming up in the reflection; looks at his face superimposed over the dark field of the sky, he knows that she’s right. He hopes that he’s found something, at last, that he won’t screw up.

He wants a whole world like this.

***

They wake up to the news that the label has booked them a tour. Short, six spots in Cali. Basically a straight shot down the 101 and a flight home at the end. Six cities, seven nights. Promo, to get more attention before the final mix of the album is sent off. Before they’re sending singles to radio stations and hoping for the best.

They start in Redding, in two weeks. He’s sitting in bed, and Ryan is cradling one of the new acoustics and strumming a chord. Shane reaches out and adjusts his fingers a bit, fixes his grip, and they run their hands across the strings together. “I’m no good at this,” Ryan says, and Shane laughs.

“No one ever is, at the start. You’ll get it.”

Two weeks. He feels those words like a hammer against his solar plexus. All of the beauty left behind him, he’s surrounded by the wrought iron chains of fear again. A tour; actual stages, real venues. Places where bands he loves have played before. It’s too big. Mount Everest rising up ahead of him again. He realizes, with stunning clarity, about five minutes after Mika tells them the news, that this is going to destroy him. They have one more gig at Le Jazz. Then they officially quit their jobs there and take off. And travel down along the length of California to meet fans and play their music and bare their souls.

He leaves Ryan there in his bed and heads for the shower, and he hopes when he gets back Ryan is right where he left him.

The hot water; the steam. It doesn’t bring him much comfort, but he tries anyway. He tries to let his shoulders loosen, to let his anxiety melt off. Water running in rivers down his face.

“_ And I know I meant nothing, nothing to you, But I thought I meant something, something, something, But I just said nothing, said nothing, said nothing, Sat and watched you drive away…” _ he sings along, the music from his phone acoustic and slow. And sad. Sometimes, he thinks, it’s important to be sad. Sometimes it’s beautiful and it’s magical to let someone else be sad for you. He has a whole playlist for it; for hoping that his sad thoughts being echoed at him from so many people will make them feel less big. “ _ Watched you said nothing, said nothing, said nothing, I can't think of anyone, anyone else, I can't think of anyone, anyone else, I can't think of anyone, anyone else, I won't think of anyone else… _”

He’s afraid and sad and he’s tired of feeling afraid and sad. The shower warms him up, but doesn’t help much, and the water at the bottom of the tub looks distant and icy and dark.

He gets dressed and heads out into the kitchen for coffee. Steven looks over from the couch and grins. “Hey dude, how’s it going?” Shane shrugs, drinking from his mug as he walks over to join him.

“Not bad, I guess. Haven’t been sleeping great.” Steven nods. “I don’t know why I’m still so nervous about all this,” he says and Steven laughs.

“Because it’s a big deal. It’s a huge opportunity. It’s a risk. We’ve quit our jobs. We’re going to go on our first tour. This could be amazing or terrible. The only way to know is to go through it. I don’t know why you think you’re the only one nervous. We all are.”

Maybe that’s true. Maybe he’s been too wrapped up in himself to really see everyone around him clearly. It doesn’t quell the nerves, it doesn’t fight off the fear. But it’s something. It’s solidarity. He’s not alone.

***

It’s become familiar by now. The gauze of xanax, the worn boards of the stage at The Jazz, his guitar in his hands. It’s almost become a ritual; a practiced pattern. “How are you, Le Jazz Haus?” Ryan asks. The noise of the crowd is a dull roar. “We’re alright, thanks for asking,” he jokes. Laughter. It’s a pattern. “In fact, we’re better than alright! It’s my pleasure to announce…” he pauses and Andrew gives him a drumroll, “we’re going on tour! Tickets go live tonight, so hurry home after the set and pick them up. Six shows here in Cali, starting in Redding! Are you excited?” he asks and the crowd screams. “So are we!”

“Anyway, we’re Hetero Reluctant,” he says, and the crowd shouts back; the call and response. “You know the drill by now,” he says, “this is _ Hold Me Tight Or Don’t _.”

_ “I never really feel a thing, I'm just kinda too froze, You were the only one, That even kinda came close, I just pinch myself, No longer comatose, I woke up, no luck….” _ and Shane echoes the last line. The run through the bridge and Ryan’s casting looks back at him throughout, moving across the stage. Then they all pick up, they all go for it. The chorus.

“_ A n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-nother day goes by, So hold me tight, Hold me tight -- or don’t, Oh n-n-no no this isn’t how our story ends, So hold me tight, Hold me tight -- or don’t,” _ and as the rest of the band sing along with the lyrics Ryan belts out a long, powerful note that outlasts them all.

_ “I got too high again,” _ he sings. It stabs into Shane, but Ryan doesn’t look back and just keeps singing, “ _ Realized I can’t not be with you, Or be just your friend, I love you to death, But I just can’t -- I just can’t pretend, We were lovers first, Confidants but never friends, Were we ever friends? _”

The bridge, the chorus, rinse and repeat. Shane can’t fight the feeling that Ryan knows what’s going on. That he’s picking these songs on purpose, sending a message in a shorthand that only they’ll understand.

He decides he needs to answer back.

They run through _ Hetero Reluctant _ and play _ Imprint _ . Tonight they’re debuting a song that Shane only finished halfway through the recording process. _ Hypothetical Trip _. Something so raw and honest it felt like he was carving the lyrics into his own skin while he fought to write them down.

“Alright, kids. This is a brand new song. One we just finished. We hope you like it,” Ryan says, but as the music starts up Shane takes lead. Ryan looks back to him, surprised, but he just shuts his eyes and keeps on singing.

_ “Do you remember?, Count the missing pieces, Take the parts of me you cannot bear, Watch me shed them like a skin. Knock the tower over while I build it up, The river flows over like wine I drank up, Shatter me on the ground, Shove me jagged back together, Take the parts of me you cannot bear, Watch me swallow them with gin, Knock the tower over while I build it up… _”

He opens his eyes and Ryan is looking back at him like he’s reading something. He pulls the mic up to his mouth and starts singing the harmonies, Shane’s part in his own song. He can’t stop now, though. _ “I’ve lost count again, I’ve lost myself again, I’ve lost count again. Count me in, count me in.” _

_ “Am I made of embers? Can I rise with the breeze? Will you scatter me like ashes, Or will it all just cease? _

“_ The puzzle's nearly finished while I'm, Lost inside your eyes, I'm Lot's wife outside Gomorrha, Pillar of salt as my disguise, King Midas when it's worthless, A growing tower shining gold, Knock the tower over while I build it up, Let them shiver in the cold.” _

Ryan and him singing the next lines in a round, “_ Did I, did I not?, Do you remember?, Without you I am lost, Do you remember?, Fold me into a paper crane, Do you remember?, Throw me off a cliff, Do you remember?, Tell them I flew away into the dawn _.”

And then it’s just him, the music cuts and echoes in the quiet; the crowd surprised, a field of phones held up casting lights all over him. “_ I’ve lost count again, I’ve lost myself again, I’ve lost count again… Count me, count me in.” _

Applause. He heaves a heavy sigh and backs away from the mic. Ryan walks over and leans in close, whispers in his ear, “that was great but _ please _ warn me next time, please. But fuck, you did so good. You sound amazing.”

“Well,” he says when he gets back to the front of the stage, “guess that was the debut of our new song and our new lead singer,” he says. The crowd cheers and laughs, and the show goes on. And while they play _ Singularity Point _ and _ Sigh Fury _ Shane has a single thought echoing in his head like a chant, like a prayer.

_ Please get it, please understand _.

***

_ December 2017 _

_ California is beautiful. Wide open and warm. It feels more like a home to Shane than Illinois ever did. There’s so much to do, there’s an endless variety of things to see. Ned and him run through them, run the gamut, in their first two weeks. Then they have to get serious about figuring something out. _

_ He gets a job at a bar because it’s easy. Ned stares longingly at his Masters while filling out applications for minimum wage jobs. It’s scary, for a while. But they’re here and they have each other. _

_ “I can’t believe you ran away with me,” Shane says one night. They’re curled up together on the hotel bed. The blankets are grey, and itchy, but it’s a bed anyway. Ned laughs and Shane leans in to curl around him. _

_ “Who doesn’t want to live in Cali, dude? Besides. It doesn’t matter where I am. I’ve got you.” _

_ Shane laughs, this time. He presses his lips against Ned’s cheek and sings, “ _I’ve got you babe…”

_ It’s winter but it doesn’t feel it. He should be sad but he doesn’t feel it. He has someone, he has arms around him. It’s such a nice thing that he almost forgets how bad things were before they left. His dad tried to call earlier, and he finally took the plunge and blocked his number. It’s time to move forward. _

_ They both get jobs and they’re looking around for an apartment when they pull up to one of the places they’d seen advertised. It’s a house, and Shane is about to turn around when two guys come bustling out the door. One is short and one is very tall; they’re a striking contrast. Ned looks over to him, and says, “I guess this is the right place. But the rent is way too low for a house.” _

_ Shane shrugs. “Maybe it was a typo. Or maybe it’s a dump. We might as well though. We’re already here.” Ned nods, and they climb out of the beat up old car. _

_ “Hey! You here to look at the rooms?” the short guy asks and Shane nods. As they approach, the four of them introduce themselves. Zach and Keith. Friends since middle school. There’s something comfortable about them, something casual and friendly. _

_ They look around and they look at the rooms, and then Ned broaches the subject. “The rent… seems awfully low,” he says awkwardly. _

_ “Yeah, it’s a great deal. The place was in rough shape when we got here, but we’ve fixed it up a lot. Landlady’s pretty chill. Never here. But she dropped the price so low because no one would move in.” _

_ Zach laughs, “maybe it’s haunted,” he teases. Ned looks to Shane; like he’s in the lead here, like he has any idea what they’re supposed to do. He feels fingers tangle around his though, a thumb run lightly across his knuckles. _

_ “It’s not haunted,” he says, “but we’re down.” _

***

_ June 2019__  
_ _ Redding _

One week. Just one week. He tries to tell himself that over and over, but it isn’t true. One week for this tour. Then the album drops, and then another tour, and then another album. He can still see everything ahead of them so clearly. He can try to tell himself that it isn’t going to work out, but Ryan could carry this band alone, and with Steven and Andrew… they’re too talented for it not to happen. Fame; a cold terrifying thing. 

The roller coaster is stopped at its highest point, and all Shane can do is imagine it falling.

They’re all packed up in a van, barreling toward the future. The venue rises out from between the other buildings and it has Shane shaking. He took a pill before they left; he already wants another.

Mika is talking to the PAs, to the staff. As soon as he has an opportunity, once they’ve got their equipment set up but before sound check, he hides away in the bathroom and swallows one. He leans back against the door and stays put, a statue among the ceramic and tile, until he has to head out onto the stage to run through the set for the techs.

It’s their first real show, really. With lighting high above in the catwalks, and with people running the sound, and with seats. Hundreds of them. In a weird way it feels less intimate, less terrifying. Maybe it’s the xanax, maybe it’s the fact that the crowd is distant. Maybe it’s neither.

***

“Wow,” Ryan says into the mic. He can hardly hear it over the roar; if not for his earpiece he’d have missed it entirely. “What a beautiful crowd, huh boys?” he asks, turning back to the band. They all nod, “well well well,” he continues, “We’re Hetero Reluctant,” he says and holds the mic out. They know what to say. They’re here to see them; paid for the chance. “This is _ Scarlet Fields _.”

Shane spends the whole song thinking about his apartment at home, thinking about when he watched Ryan’s fingers trace along his records and how he paused on this album before choosing _ Coral Fang _.

This is where everything has lead. And the further and further Shane looks back the more he sees it was all just a path to here; to this stage. The huge lights, the wild crowd, the noise of it. This was at the end of his trail all along. He thinks about mazes, about trails in the forest, about looking back but moving forward.

Everyone is full of the energy of it. Even him. It’s cutting through the pills and forcing him to live in the moment and God, it’s something huge and amazing, all of this. It’s something he never imagined he could have. Andrew is drumming harder than ever, Steven’s riffs and runs and improvs surprising laughs out of Ryan. And Ryan. He’s giving it his all; working through the lyrics so hard that Shane wonders how he’s gonna make it through five shows after this. His eyes bright from the dark pools of eyeliner. His skin shining from the glitter across his cheekbones and forehead and the bridge of his nose. His hair is loose and he keeps running his hand through it until it’s wild. He looks like a real performer; his ragged and loose tank top showing off the muscles of his arms and his tattoos, the dark fabric of his binder peaking through, the skintight pants that look like maroon leather. His heavy boots. He’s becoming the star he was always meant to be. The eyeliner starts to run down his cheek a bit from his sweat but he just grins and grins and sings away. Halfway through the show they pause and play the electronica track Eugene made for them while they rush off stage and drink water. Ryan takes a couple shots of whiskey, and they’re right back to it.

He can feel his shirt sticking to him, can feel the sweat running down his chest. It’s a thrill. Underneath it all, the steady hum of the xanax in his blood.

The crowd is singing along with every song they play and it surprises Shane; that they already know the words to an album that hasn’t even been released yet. They’re playing _ Sigh Fury _ when the lights come down enough for Shane to see the audience beyond them, their lighters and phones up in the air; swaying to the beat. Their voices singing along. The moment is surreal, a thousand tiny lights flickering and twinkling, dotted throughout the mass of hands in the air, the crowd like a haunting echo that carries the back end of Ryan’s voice as he sings. He’s wrapped up in it. This is his song. His words. His love for Ryan laid bare for the masses to hear and they’re singing it back to him, “ _ Say it lover, Make yourself heard, The planchette on this spirit board, Taking off like a bird, Spell out your intentions, Don’t say anything lover, Don't tell me it's over.” _

It feels like home. It feels like healing.

Between songs Ryan leaves the mic and walks over to Shane. He leans in close to his ear, and says, “you wanna take Hypothetical Trip again, dude? You did a great job.” Shane shakes his head, gestures for Ryan to take the lead, and he frowns.

“You sure? Is it… I know you were really working hard on it. It’s personal, right? Is it… Is it about Illinois?”

Shane’s face must reflect his terror, because Ryan holds up his hands like surrender. “Don’t worry, I got it.”

***

Tucked into the back seat of the van, the highway underneath them, they make their way southwest. The hum of the radio quietly playing accompanies the hum of the tires on the road. Andrew and Steven are asleep behind them. Ryan is leaning into him, a heavy presence. He turns his head and whispers, “are you ever going to tell me about it?” He doesn’t say anything else, but Shane knows what he means. Illinois. His past. He doesn’t know the answer yet. So many questions he has no answer to.

“After LA,” Shane answers. He’s putting it off. “After this tour…”

After this is all over.

***

_ San Francisco _

The city is beautiful in the morning, blanketed by fog that will burn off by the afternoon. The night in the hotel was a blank spot, all they could do was fall into bed and sleep, but now the day stretches on in front of them and it feels endless. They head out to get lunch, to enjoy the city before their show. Between Steven and Andrew’s laughter and bickering and the feeling of Ryan’s hand in his, it’s like a whole new life. The sun looks like a flat white disc through the fog. It rained last night, and the wet pavement shines. It’s beautiful.

They stop in a cafe for lunch, and Shane tries to focus on the menu but his attention keeps being pulled over to another table, where two girls are whispering to each other and glancing over repeatedly. Eventually he looks over and makes eye contact and watches a blush rise on one girl’s cheeks. He waves them over, and they approach shyly.

“Sorry, but you’re Hetero Reluctant, aren’t you?” one of them asks, a tall girl with long straight hair.

Ryan laughs, “actually we’re pretty solidly queer, but yeah.” The girls giggle, and then the other one, a quiet mousy girl, asks for a photo. Ryan grins, and they oblige them, each one getting a picture with the whole band. After her turn, the quieter girl leans in and whispers something to Ryan. He grins and whispers back, and they talk in hushed tones for a moment before they head back to their own table and the food arrives.

It feels so foreign to him, being recognized. Being appreciated. He’s not just ‘some guy,’ any more, he’s Shane Madej, From Hetero Reluctant. He wonders if it will ever feel more natural, if any of this will ever settle in and become normal. It isn’t yet, it hasn’t yet.

After lunch they head to the bay. Andrew and Steven laugh and run into the water, knee deep, and splash at each other. Ryan is filming them, finally gathering content to put up on their youtube channel. Steven grabs Andrew’s arms when he tries to push him back into the water and pulls him in to kiss him.

“This is so weird,” Shane says and Ryan ends the video, turns to look at him with a question in every part of his posture. “Being recognized. Autographs and pictures. It’s just… different.”

Ryan shrugs. He guesses it wouldn’t be so strange for Ryan, after all. He’s always been magnetic, he’s always gathered up attention and admirers like he drags a net behind him. “Yeah,” he answers, “it is. But that’s okay. It can be weird.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees. The sun finally burned off all the fog. It’s huge and bright in the sky. 

***

The spotlight is huge and bright against the high, dark ceiling above the stage. Another gig. Four more after that. The tour is just winding up but it feels like it’s been a year already since they left.

Shane starts paying more attention after Redding, after their last Le Jazz show, really, to the songs Ryan is choosing to cover. _ One Way Mule _ in San Fran, _ Panic Switch _ in Berkeley. He’s searching through the words like a labyrinth, trying to find the message. It’s clear, it’s clear. Ryan knows he’s afraid. Ryan knows something is wrong.

He drowns in it; he’s taking two or three xanax before each gig as this tour continues, and the looks that the band keep shooting him are pointed and afraid. But he’s so focused on trying to read Ryan’s messages that the days blur by.

The hotel in Ventura is nice; definitely nicer than the last places. He steps out of the shower and into the room and Ryan looks up from the bed. His smile is the moon, and Shane is the tide, and he’s drawn to him. So he crosses the room and falls into bed and lays his head in Ryan’s lap, and Ryan’s fingers toy with his wet hair in a way that is definitely going to make it curl up strangely. He doesn’t mind.

“So,” Ryan says. He leaves the word hanging. “I want to ask you something…”

He seems nervous, and it’s putting Shane on edge. “Yeah?” he prompts. Ryan clears his throat.

“It’s just… You know. I never really…”

Shane sits up, concern clear on his face. “Ryan, what is it?”

“Look. I know this is… whatever. Fuck it. Shane, you are without a doubt the best thing that’s ever happened to me. More than the band, more than anything… you’re what’s important. So I want to know if…”

***

_ October 2018 _

_ Ryan’s bed is big, and he often wonders how they even managed to get the mattress up the stairs, much less in the door and through the halls. “Do you ever think about the future?” he asks suddenly, and Ryan laughs from where he’s getting dressed. _

_ “What kind of stoned ass question is that?” he answers in between laughter. “Of course I do, doesn’t everyone?” _

_ Shane shrugs. All he knows is right now; the blankets rucked up roughly from earlier, the gold glow of the soft lights in the corner, Ryan standing in his underwear, tugging his pants on and wobbling with the effort. “I don’t know. But I do know one thing.” _

_ Ryan buttons the fly and looks over, dragging his hand through his hair to get it out of his eyes. _

_ “I don’t ever want a day to come where I don’t have you. Now that I found you, I’m never letting go.” _

_ Ryan laughs again, crosses the room to straddle his lap and lean down and kiss him. “ _ Wild horses… Couldn’t drag me away,” _ he sings against Shane’s neck. It shocks a shiver from him, and he laughs. _

_ He’s in love. _

***

“I just want to know. I, you know. I’m in this. Us. For the long haul. So I just wondered if you’d be open to… Damn it.”

Ryan stands suddenly and paces the room a few times. “This isn’t what I had planned but fuck it, neither is any of this. Some day, I plan on settling down, you know? The whole nine yards - a house with a yard and some dogs and… And I want to do that with you.”

Shane’s heart is pounding. He’s glad to be sober; because he knows he’s going to remember this clearly; burned in like an afterimage.

“So,” Ryan says, dragging a small box from his pocket and tossing it onto the bed, next to his left hand. “Will you marry me?” 

Shane stares down at it in shock, then looks up at Ryan where he’s standing in the middle of the room, looking uncertain and afraid.

“I-” Shane starts, and his voice gives out. He looks back and forth a few times. Then he picks up the box and opens it. A silver band in stark contrast against a red cushion. It shines in the light.

"I-- are you joking? Of course I will!" He says, finally. Ryan sighs, like a spirit's just been run out of him.

"This wasn't how I… honestly I was going to just hold on to that for a while but I was looking at you and I just… knew. I knew I loved you so much more than everything else, the music the band, none of that compares. God, we're not even in the press yet and we're a PR nightmare."

Shane laughs, runs his fingers over the ring, the velvet cushion. He feels guilt and love and fear and joy. All at once. Everything, everything, the horrible weight of it.

He looks up. "Ryan I…”

“It’s, look. I don’t mean right now, obviously. Or even soon. But I’m in this, right? So… I guess what this ring means is, ‘are you in it?’ you know?”

He wants to badly to tell him the truth, to just let it out. Run out the demons, burn the sage, chase out the spirits. But who knows what Ryan would say. Would he still want this? He doesn’t know. So he buries the thought.

“I’m in. I’m with you. As long as you’ll have me… God, I love you.”

Ryan crosses the room again, to fall into his arms. Tomorrow they have a concert. And two days after that, and the day after. And then they’re done with this tour and they can let the cards fall and see how they land. It’s so close he can touch it; the future there right in front of him.

***

“Ventura!” Ryan yells. The crowd screams back. “It is so fucking good to see you. We’ve all been thinking a lot, lately, about lots of things…”

“Romance!” Steven shouts. The crowd cheers.

“Adventure,” Andrew adds. The crowd cheers.

“... Sex?” Shane says. Screams, laughter.

“Definitely sex. And as we, us four boys, have been thinking about sex…” the crowd is wild, “we’ve come to a bit of a realization. We’re all a bit Hetero Reluctant,”

**“HOW ‘BOUT YOU?!” ** The crowd is a wall of noise. “Now that’s what I like to hear… You all look beautiful out there tonight. Yes, even you,” he says. He’s a natural. He’s thriving right now and Shane can feel the ring in his pocket thrumming with the sound. “And because you’re all so beautiful, I want to sing you a song that I love very much. This is _ Waves _.”

Steven starts in on the bass; Ryan holds out a lone, quavering note. The rest of them start in at once, just as Ryan sings the verse. “_ Here it goes, Chemical is on it’s way… And my box is packed, Or should I stay?” _ and Shane chimes in, “ _ It’s coming _ .” The sound tech throws a reverb on Shane’s mic. It sounds great. “ _ We can analyze, philosophize… But who’s to say? All we know is.... Here today…” _

Shane makes his guitar sing and Steven follows it; Andrew steady like a heartbeat. “_ Look… in my eyes. _” They all sing, the four of them in tandem.

Then Ryan takes off, he explodes like a rocket; he’s fucking ball lightning. “_ This is just the reason why I stay.... I know there are things we shouldn’t say… Blame it on the reason why I came… Maybe ‘cause I couldn’t feel the…” _

He pauses, then his voice soars, “_Pain....” _

_ “Fight the fear, Taste the grip, Feel the slip, Shake the soul… Feel the waves. In and out and in and out and in and out…Look in my eyes…” _

The both of them together, singing like one voice. “_ This is just the reason why I stay… I know there are things we shouldn’t, say… Blame it on the reason why I came… Maybe ‘cause I couldn’t feel the… Pain” _

_ “Feel the weight wash away, All the mistakes I've made, Living a time on my own, Tearing the soul from bone, Letting the tide suck me in, And chemicals burst in, These are my only friends, Giving me waves until the end…” _

His voice, as he vocalizes over their music until the time switch, is huge and high and powerful, notes none of them knew he could reach. The crowd is wild. Shane feels wild; like the pills never even hit him. He feels wild and fiery and like this night is the most important one of his life. 

As the final note tapers off, the crowd explodes into cheers and Ryan calls out into the mic, “YEAH, now that’s how you start a show, wouldn’t you guys say?” The cheers scream even louder as Ryan tosses his head back and laughs. He’s panting, he’s already worn out; it's going to be a hell of a show.

Their set seems to crawl and race by at once, Shane tuning in and out, feeling the waves of the xanax in his system. He’s thinking ahead. Santa Monica. LA. Home. They’re almost done and in the strangest way he finds himself wishing that this would never end. In between songs his fingers toy with the ring. By the time they get to _ Fatal Verdict _ he’s mostly sober, but he’s too caught up in the energy of the night to even notice. He could play a hundred more shows as long as this band is there with him, backing him up. He takes a long drink of the glass of gin near him, watches Ryan drink down a finger or two of whiskey. He wants to taste it on his tongue.

They play and Ryan sings. “_ The hammer swinging heavy, Clove oil on my tongue, Follow me down this way, Crawl then walk then run. _

_ ‘Wrong words wrong time, I'm lost inside your eyes, Wrong place wrong face, Fatal verdict full of lies, Wrong words wrong time, But I can't apologize, Wrong place wrong face, Bury this inside…” _

He feels the words, the rhythm, he feels it all and it’s so thrilling. It’s like something under his skin; threatening to burst forth. He joins Ryan on the pre-chorus, _ “Don’t let me fall from grace yet, Hold me in your embrace, Crawling towards the Baphomet, Just give me a taste.” _

_ “Sage chases out the spirits, Puts my demons in the yard, How much longer will I fear it?, Just tell me when to drop my guard…” _

It’s almost over. They’re almost done, almost home. The final notes of the song cutting through the screaming of the crowd.

He’s exhausted, overwhelmed and exhilarated in the best way. He could do this forever. As soon as he can put down the guitar his arms are around Ryan and he’s pulling him close and kissing him against the screams, in front of everyone.

***

_ Santa Monica _

When he was younger, he believed certain things to be true. All the things your parents tell you, all the stories about good guys and bad guys; good, bad -- people aren't either, he learned eventually, people are just people. But the weight of those ideas, the constant shroud of this or that and good or bad and desire and austerity, the weight of it all bears down on him like it bears down on all of the people who are just people until they forget how to be and why they are.

He forgot a long time ago the song that his mother used to sing to lull him to sleep, but the idea of it, the echoing tuneless rhythmless melody he's left with still plays in his mind when he lies down.

They have a show tonight. He has a ring on his finger. He can still taste whiskey on his lips from Ryan. He’s here and he’s in love and he’s terrified. The big things always scare him. But Ryan is in his arms, and soon they have to get up and get ready and head to the venue. Before that maybe they’ll go to the pier. Maybe they’ll stay in and relax and pretend to just be two people instead of two members of a band steadily growing in popularity. They’re getting more press. This whole tour sold out in hours. This is _ real _ in such a visceral way that it just keeps shocking him over and over again.

Ryan stirs, and Shane runs his hand up and down his arm. “Morning,” he says, and Ryan groans. “What time is it?” he asks.

“Just after seven. Got a big day ahead of us. You sure you don’t want more sleep?”

Ryan grins, a devilish grin. “I’d rather make out with you. I’d rather you mark me up so bad that Mika lectures us.”

Shane grins. “Yes, sir,” he says, and rolls them so he’s on top, so he can let gravity press their lips together while Ryan wraps a leg up over him and tugs him flush together. He’s already wet; Shane’s already hard. They kiss and Shane relishes in the feeling of just rutting against him; the tease of it. Ryan has other plans, reaches down and lines him up on a backstroke so he sinks in. He tosses his head back and Shane uses the opportunity to lean forward and suck a bruise into his neck; then another. Bites on his shoulder, bruises on the center of his chest, the five red semicircles left behind when he moves his fingers from Ryan’s arm and downward, to toy with his dick and make him buck up and gasp.

He wants this. He wants all of this. He wants a whole world like this. The two of them in the morning, sunlight gentle at the curtains and the TV droning on in the background. It’s perfect.

“Fuck me,” Ryan says. So he does. Then, “harder,” he says; so he does.

“I love you,” Shane says and Ryan moans.

“I love you too. But right now I want you to fuck me like you hate me.”

So Shane pins his arms back and pushes forward harder, hard enough that with every thrust Ryan comes closer to slamming his head into the headboard. They are absolutely going to ruin these sheets.

He lets go of Ryan’s wrists and runs his fingers down the length of his body, grips into his hips and tugs him back down the bed roughly, pulling him deeper in. “Fuck,” Ryan says in between gasps and moans. He shakes apart and Shane can feel it, how wet he is. He can hear it in the quiet room. “Fuck,” Ryan says, and then Shane surges forward and catches his lips and kisses him so rough he thinks he might have split one of his lips.

All he can taste is the whiskey on Ryan’s tongue. The clove cigarettes he’d smoked late last night while signing posters. The heady cologne still stuck fast on Ryan’s neck. He’s almost there, so he speeds up and he lifts Ryan’s hips a bit to a different angle and he watches through heavy half-lidded eyes as Ryan cums again. He follows over the edge just after.

***

He’s fine until they see the place. It’s huge. It’s made for real bands, not four misfits. It’s practically a stadium. It looms up ahead of him like Mount Everest, and he stands still outside of it, head craned back. He drops his cigarette to the sidewalk and stomps it out. He walks in, and he tries not to think about how fancy it looks, or how high the ceilings are, or how the floors are fucking _ marble _. How? How could they go from a shitty basement show to this so fast?

He doesn’t know, he never does. But he makes his way backstage and to his guitars and he checks them on the stage. And the stage… it’s too much. Standing in that space feels like he’s standing on a cliff. Like he’s standing on an icy railing in Illinois.

He scrambles away when he sees the band coming, finds his way to a quiet corner and digs in his pocket. Two pills in a little baggie. He looks at them sitting in his left hand until he sees the light glinting off of the silver band around his finger. He frowns. He slides it off, into his pocket, and swallows them.

It’s still their little secret. They’re waiting until after the tour to bring it up; but they wear the rings in public and Ryan seems to be enthralled with waiting for the fans or the media to mention it. 

He shoves the empty baggy into his pocket again. Too many secrets to keep; he feels sick with them.

Two shows. Tonight and tomorrow and they’re done. They’re almost home free. He waits for the pills to slow his heart and wanders the place with twitching, terrified fingers. Hands useless at his sides. He fumbles through sound check and waves it off. Makes an excuse and heads outside to smoke. Just to find something to do with his hands. He runs into a couple guys in the alley, and at first they ignore him. One notices eventually, and as he looks over Shane can see his grin and his dark, blown out pupils. He’s high and it makes him itch all over.

“Man, aren’t you that dude?” the guy says, excited. “Yeah yeah, Joey look! It’s uhhhhh Sam from that band!”

“Shane,” he says, and the guys laugh.

“Yeah yeah yeah, Shane! Look man, we wish we coulda got tickets but they sold out so quick. We figured we could still hear from out here, though. Fuck man! How you doin?”

Shane wiggles his hand around, a so-so gesture. “Well, man, you wanna party?” He holds up a little baggy, corner fat full of white powder.

That itch. The burn.

He holds out the empty baggy with a shy smile, a wry grin. “I’ll save it for later,” he says, and the guys laugh. They spoon a bit in and he seals it up, stores it away.

He has a show to do; the party can wait.

***

“Santa Monica,” Ryan calls, like he’s teasing. Like calling out to an old friend. “How are we feeling?”

Noise.

“Now that I can agree with--” he pauses, points at a sign, “did you just get married?!” Shane’s eyes are drawn over; a young man in a nice suit; the woman next to him in a gown. ‘Just married’ on a sign in her arms. The spotlight swings onto them and the crowd screams.

Noise.

Eight songs, Eugene’s track in the middle. He can do this. His eyes sweep the crowd as Ryan keeps up his banter. They freeze. ‘Shane you saved my life in Chicago December 2016’

Noise; a hurricane in his ears. He is struck by a sudden and entirely irrational thought: **Your past just caught up to you, time to start running**.

“HOW ‘BOUT YOU!” the crowd screams; it’s all just noise. Four songs, break. Four songs. Just noise. He’s shaking.

They play _ Hetero Reluctant. _ They play _ Sigh Fury _ . They play _ Gory Modesty. _ He doesn’t sing a single note and Ryan keeps looking back at him, confused. His eyes are firmly locked on that sign. He can recognize her, by now. Everytime the light is on her he knows. They play _ Vapid _.

The stage goes dark and Eugene’s track starts playing and he doesn’t stop moving until he’s locked in the bathroom. He inhales the baggy and he sits roughly on the floor and he counts seconds against the thudding of his heart. Three minutes twenty-one seconds left. He shakes. What was he thinking? Why did he assure everyone it was fine.

Three minutes and four seconds. He stands up and looks in the mirror and his eyes are huge. There’s a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” he says, and he wets a paper towel and cleans off his nose and splashes his face with cold water. He looks into the mirror.

_ Imprint. Hypothetical Trip. Fatal Verdict. Singularity Point _. Done. He can do this.

“Why the fuck did I write so many of these fucking songs about…” he says, and from the other side of the door he hears Ryan say, “Illinois?”

He doesn’t talk about it and they head back to the wing.

Forty-seven seconds.

“Shane,” Ryan says. He looks over, and smiles, but the look in Ryan’s eye tells him it isn’t convincing.

Twelve seconds.

Noise.

“You know,” Ryan says against the screams, “a good friend of ours made that instrumental.”

“Really?” Steven asks, “who could that be?”

“Cheyenne Pepper, legend, superstar, absolute madwoman.” The crowd cheers; Eugene will like that. He deserves it.

He looks back but can’t find the sign now, whether it’s because she put it down or because his eyes skip a section of seats every time he isn’t sure.

They play _ Imprint _ and _ Hypothetical Trip _ and this time Shane remembers to sing backup; he even has an alright time with it. They play through _ Fatal Verdict _ . He can do this. _ Singularity Point _ is all that stands between him and a hotel bed and a vacation.

He glances down at the setlist taped by his feet, as if he didn’t have it down. The parenthetical catches his eye. _ Don’t Forget the Summer _. He feels like a fool. Then, he feels heat blooming across him. The music starts and he plays along. Everything seems so strange. He keeps playing, keeps singing.

_ “The seasons change as time moves on, Can’t win this deadly game, I need to breathe, I need to scream, My lips are frozen shut. _ _ The winter pulls me inward. _ _ What can I do?” _

He looks down at the stage and sees icy water.

_ “Oh summer... _  
_ Oh summer... _ _  
Hold on to that summer...”_

He’s not gonna make it through. He realizes with a sudden sharp clarity that cleaves straight through him, staggering and instant illumination; he’s one of those bodies, frozen up near the summit of Mount Everest. Left behind. He never even reached the peak.

He falls, and it feels like he lands on a soft bed. Ryan’s bed, maybe. Certainly not the hotel’s.

Flashing lights; colours behind his eyes; a huge warm white spotlight. It's like he's on stage.

  
***

He wakes up, once, and sees a lot of silhouettes and hears a lot of voices. Then he sleeps again. 

Starched, white hospital sheets and a heaviness in his chest. Ryan is passed out in one of the chairs, his neck titled in a way he's going to regret in the morning. Shane groans, a heavy sigh. Ryan stirs and then sits up sudden and all at once; his left hand raises to rub at the side and back of his neck.

“Sorry,” Shane says. Ryan’s neutral face turns furious.

“Don’t apologize.” He says. Shane flinches and the anger bleeds from him. He steps forward and takes his hand. He’s still wearing the ring. “Shane... “ he pauses for a long time, and what he settles on is, “you should have just told me.”

“I know,” he says, and a frown tugs at Ryan’s face. He doesn’t look as radiant as Shane remembers.

“So tell me now,” Ryan says. And he sits on the edge of the bed, and he cards his fingers through Shane’s hair. And so he does.

“Before I moved out here I almost killed myself. And I was using… a lot of stuff. Coke, xanax, drinking way too much… pain meds, whatever. And I wanted to die…”

Ryan is silent, and Shane tells him everything.

“What are we going to do?” Shane asks, and even though that’s what he says, the question Ryan answers is, ‘are we going to be okay?’

“Yes,” he says. “We. Exactly. And what _ we _ are going to do is fix this.”

“How?” Shane asks. Ryan smiles; it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“By calling in the help of people who are immeasurably smarter and more professional than us,” he answers, and he pulls out his phone and starts shooting off texts. Shane falls back asleep, drowsy from the crash of it; that old fucking roller coaster finally fell apart.

***

_ LA _

Exhaustion. Stress and exhaustion. That’s what was told, and that’s the story that ran, and as Steven keeps pointing out like it actually helps at all, “any publicity is good publicity. What? There were like twenty articles about the Santa Monica show before we even left.”

It doesn’t matter. The truth is out to the people who matter, and between Curly Velasquez and Steve Bergara, no one else is going to hear about it. If there were any lawyers in the world worth trusting, it was them.

He says as much, and Ryan weakly says, “what about Jake?”

“Jake’s a prosecutor. He didn’t help us at all,” Andrew says.

Now they’re here. LA. And after what amounts to a coma’s worth of sleep in fourteen hours, an amount of IV drips, and a gatorade of all things, Shane feels more or less okay. “Remember to take it easy,” Ryan says and Shane rolls his eyes, but only because he likes the way Ryan pouts about it.

“I know I know, can we just… let’s fucking kill this show so I can get better, yeah?” Shane says.

The mood isn’t exactly solemn, thank God, but there is an undercurrent of anxiety. Oddly enough, Shane’s the only one who feels fine. At least, not nervous. He’s here, and he’s sober. And right now he’s not even counting days because he’s only at one; one step; one foot up the stair. One more rock behind him; Everest in his sights. But he’s here, and he’s excited. And he thinks that now, he really wants it. He wants to be okay. And he wants to take in all of this fear and magic and excitement and breathe it so deep it hurts. He wants it and he’s going to take it.

His past caught up to him, but you can only run for so long. Now, he’s standing still, embracing it and holding on tight.

One more show; one more step; one more day. Tide in tide out. It’s glorious.

***

“Los Angeles!” Ryan says. “Sorry we had to postpone one night. I’m glad to see you all made it!”

His banter, the crowd; all of the noise of it like a windstorm. Like thunder rumbling. Count the seconds; flash of lightning, and Ryan is off.

_ “There's something about the look in your eyes, Something I noticed when the light was just right, It reminded me twice that I was alive, And it reminded me that you're so worth the fight… My biggest fear will be the rescue of me, Strange how it turns out that way, yeah.” _

It’s not the easiest song; but Andrew is more than good enough and him and Steven are in sync in a way they never have been and Ryan is bright; he’s grinning. As they sing the chorus Ryan reaches his left hand back toward Shane and the light glints off of the silver band on his finger.

_ “Could you show me dear... Something I've not seen?, Something infinitely interesting, Could you show me dear... Something I've not seen?, Something infinitely interesting.” _

Ryan dances across the stage and holds the mic up to Shane to sing instead while he keeps playing, _“_ _ There’s something about the way you move, I see your mouth in slow motion when you sing, More subtle than something someone contrives, Your movements echo that I have seen the real thing… _

_ “Your biggest fear will be the rescue of you... _ _ Strange how it turns out that way, yeah…” _

The two of them together, standing on stage, their voices harmonize, more powerful together, it’s like a magic Shane can feel in his chest. “_ Could you show me dear... Something I've not seen?, Something infinitely interesting, Could you show me dear... Something I've not seen?, Something infinitely interesting...” _

The crowd is wild; they siFng along but Shane couldn’t hear them at all against the feeling of Ryan’s eyes on him and the spell he’s under when they sing together.

In the crowd, he catches sight of Ryan’s parents, his brother; everyone’s family there. Front row, yelling the words. Even Shane’s dad right there with them, an odd, misty look on his face. Shane points to him and grins. “Are you proud of me?” he asks, forgetting the mic. His dad laughs while the crowd cheers. He nods, and wipes at his eyes. And Shane keeps right on playing.

Half the set flies by. Four songs left; but he could play a hundred. He could do this forever. He pulls Ryan into his arms and kisses him for the entire four minutes of Eugene’s as-yet unnamed track.

They walk back on stage hand in hand, the crowd wild, the night wild. He’s so in the moment that it’s huge and terrifying and it feels like falling in love. Like a lover in front of you and the moon overhead.

“Thank you, Los Angeles!” Ryan says. “I hope you’re enjoying the show! I hope you’ve had a good night, and good lord I hope you fall in love tonight.”

“I know I did,” Steven says, aiming his bass for Andrew. They share a laugh, but Shane can only look at Ryan.

“I know I did,” Shane says, and Ryan laughs, tossing his head back raucous with it.

“Same,” Ryan and Andrew agree at the same time.

“Look at us up here, all in love. Los Angeles, this song is for you.”

_ “Your eyes on me,” _ Ryan sings a capella, and Shane echoes him. They start playing slowly, one by one, until the three of them and Ryan are in sync perfectly. “ _ They make me hot like fire, Like a moth to a flame, Like a burning desire… You're a mark on my soul, I can't escape you,” _

_ “You mark me,” _  
_ “The path I chose, It's like I'm out of control, The red tape,” _ _  
_“You mark me...”

The chorus together, the two of them together. “_ You're like an imprint, A reflection of you on me, I can't seem to escape it, You’re like an imprint, Looking back all I see, I don’t want to escape it…” _If this is what it’s felt like for everyone else this whole time; if this magic is what he should have felt all along, then he feels even more foolish for dulling it all. This is the best moment of his life, and as they play on he finds himself wishing desperately that it could go on forever.

“_ There’s no way for you to ever know, Just the impact you make on me, Your imprint that marks my being, And everything the world tried to take from me, You’re the one who I want to share my world with, But I worry about how it will be, Can you set me free? _

_ “You're like an imprint, A reflection of you on me, I can't seem to escape it, You’re like an imprint, Looking back all I see, I don’t want to escape it…” _

He drinks some water and watches Ryan while he says something to Steven. One more song, one more song.

“Hey LA I know I keep interrupting the show, but I forgot to ask how you feel about surprises,” Ryan says, then pauses to have a shot.

“Good good, because we’ve got one song left, and after that my…” Ryan glances at him, the overhead lighting glinting off the ring on his finger, “...the love of my life wants to sing a song for you. You down for that?” Noise. Beautiful, wild noise. Shane is grinning.

_ Singularity Point _. It’s all coming to a close, and then his entire life opens up in front of him.

So they play their hearts out, and they sing the whole thing together; together all the way through. And it feels like hope. It’s amazing. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt; better than the drugs. He craves this more than anything before. In this moment, he loves it.

And then the band leaves, and he steps off stage and grabs something, and he comes back with his old guitar comfortable and familiar. Something calling to him, this whole time telling him to keep it around. _ Time to embrace the past _, he thinks, and then he walks out to Ryan’s mic center stage. And he looks down and sees his dad, and he smiles again.

“This um… this is another cover, but… after everything, I felt like it was important. This is _ Cold Fame _.”

He plays, just him, alone. Bare in front of the crowd. And their lighters are out and there are signs that tell him he’s loved and they hope he’s okay, and he is. And he never noticed how pure this old, beat up guitar sounded. How clean and true the notes are.

_ “What's the point of fame if it's been abused?, What's a kid like me even got to lose?, Here I am on your bed again, It's too big for the room it's in, Wash your face and laugh just a little bit, Everybody knows that you're good at it, But nothing hurts like an answer phone, Drinkin' some, waking up alone,” _

As he sings his heart thuds so loud, the crowd screams so loud; he has no idea how he sounds. But when he glances over Ryan’s grinning and crying and he has to look back out, straight into the mess of people swaying in time.

_ “Maybe if I try just a little more, I can take myself from this dirty floor, Walk through buildings of elegance, Just like you are intelligent… _ _ But still I fall from grace with this microphone, How'd you find yourself if you never roam?, Certainly I'm indebted baby, certainly, certainly, yeah…” _

_ “I know my place, but it don't know me… _ _ I know my place, but it don't know me…” _

He pauses and takes a deep breath after the chorus, and the crowd screams out, and a chuckle shakes loose from the absurdity of it. No one ever wanted to listen to him, before. When he was young, when he was high, when he was just someone. But all of this, Ryan and the band. This is what a purpose feels like. This is what it is not to need anyone to listen anyway.

_ “No one wants to hear that you're breaking up, It wasn't long ago we said, "start me up", Now all your dreamin' will have to wait, What you deserve you'll anticipate, Play your forty-five records late at night, Open all the windows, turn out the light, Mysterious creatures will fill the room, A midnight show just put on for you.” _

The guitar, his voice. It’s all he has. Once upon a time it was actually all he had. Once upon a time he woke up a thousand days in a row and wished he didn’t. But that time is so far away now, he can’t even imagine that guy, can’t picture his face.

_ “But still I fall from grace with this microphone, How'd you find yourself if you never roam?, Certainly I'm indebted baby, certainly, certainly, yeah… _

_ “I know my place, but it don't know me. _ _ Cold fame in my brain, but it's okay 'cause I know it's the best for me…” _

He chants the last line, lets it build, and then stops. Silence. The warm, white light. The roar of the crowd. Below him, the stage looks solid, like wood, like something sturdy and historical and beautiful.

He looks up and Ryan is crossing to him, and everyone is on his heels, the band and Mika and their parents and it’s pandemonium and Ryan crashes their lips together and everyone crowds around.

And it’s fucking glorious.

***

_ July 2019 _

“God this is going to be weird,” Ryan says while he drives. He doesn’t look over, but Shane can’t take his eyes off of him. He wants to remember every detail of that face. A whole season away. Inpatient. Then even more time in outpatient. He’s not worried. He’s not afraid. He’s already at the peak of the mountain, and this is the easy part. All he has to do is fall into it.

“I know,” he says, “but that’s okay. It can be weird.” Ryan laughs. At a red light, he turns and smiles at Shane. His eyes crinkle up, and they’re a bit too wet for his taste, so Shane leans over and kisses him.

“I’m really going to miss your dumb ass,” Ryan says, and they both laugh. “Serious. My bed’s gonna seem even bigger without your long fucking legs taking up the whole thing.”

It gets quiet, and Shane sighs. The sun is out. Their windows are down and it’s a beautiful day. 

“I’m going to make you proud,” Shane says, as Ryan parks.

“No you won’t,” Ryan says. Shane frowns. “You don’t have to ‘make’ me anything. I’ve been proud of you the whole time.”

“Me, on the other hand,” Mr. Bergara says as he steps out of his car behind them, “you can feel free to make proud.” Shane laughs. He will. He doesn’t need to say it. It’s a beautiful day and he’s never looked forward to anything more in his life. He pulls Ryan close again, one more time, and kisses him as long as he can. And then he runs his thumb over Ryan’s hand, over the warm metal, the promise around his finger.

“I’ll be back sooner than you know,” he says, as he turns. And he leaves Ryan standing there.

And he hopes when he gets back Ryan is right where he left him.

***

_ Fin. _

**Author's Note:**

> If you're reading this I love you. Thank you, again, to Kaya, and thank you to all of you.
> 
> Lyrics for the Hetero Reluctant songs were all written by myself and Kaya.  
Lyrics from existing songs don't belong to us.
> 
> Music Referenced:  
\- Title is from Vicarious Atonement by The Mars Volta  
\- The song they’re singing in the kitchen is Calm Before The Storm by Fall Out Boy  
The song playing when Shane walked in would have been Grenade Jumper. They were working their way through  
Take This To Your Grave  
\- Shane is singing Light Of The Morning by Band of Skulls while at work.  
\- The song Ryan interrupts Eugene with is Put Your Records On by Corrine Bailey Rae.  
\- Shane is singing Instant Crush by Daft Punk & Julian Casablancas in the shower.  
\- Shane sings 1979 by Smashing Pumpkins after writing with Ryan.  
\- Ryan sings Disarm by Smashing Pumpkins in response.  
\- The cleaning up song is Let The Devil In by Green Lung.  
\- I Shall Die Here is an album by The Body.  
\- Zero is a song by Smashing Pumpkins.  
\- The cover at the house show is 12:51 by The Strokes  
\- During the pegging scene, Ryan plays the Bad Witch album by Nine Inch Nails, and then Closer once the album ends  
\- The song playing when Mika gives them new equipment is Semi-Charmed Life by Third Eye Blind  
\- The cover at the first show at Le Jazz Haus is Like A Stone by Audioslave  
\- Eugene’s songs as Cheyenne Pepper are Papi Pacify and Glass & Patron by FKA twigs  
\- Don’t Mess With Me is a song by Brody Dalle (of the Distillers and Spinnerette)  
\- They perform Semi-Charmed Life at Le Jazz Haus after the NYE show  
\- Shane sings along with Something by Julien Baker  
\- If you’re interested, his “sad times” playlist also includes Sparklehorse, Bright Eyes, Heatmiser, Elliott Smith, The Caretaker, Bon Iver, The Antlers, Joy Division, among others.  
\- HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON’T is a song by Fall Out Boy.  
\- Scarlet Fields is by The Horrors  
\- One Way Mule is by Silverchair  
\- Panic Switch is by Silversun Pickups  
\- Waves is by Young the Giant  
\- Echo by Incubus  
\- Cold Fame is by Band of Skulls


End file.
